


Haunted Men

by emmbrancsxx0



Series: Haunted Men Trilogy (Superwhomerlock) [2]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Merlin (TV), Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Superwholockin, Superwhomerlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 20:45:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 94,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmbrancsxx0/pseuds/emmbrancsxx0
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>CROSSOVER: SUPERWHOMERLOCK. SEQUEL TO WHERE ANGELS TREAD. When the Winchesters, Merlin, and the Doctor and Clara get trapped inside a universe in which they never existed, Castiel enlists the help of Sherlock Holmes to get them home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note: This is the sequel to Where Angels Tread.  
> Setting: Supernatural, between the season eight episodes "Clip Show" and "Sacrifice"; Doctor Who, between the season seven episodes "Nightmare in Silver" and "The Name of the Doctor"; Sherlock, after season two's "The Reichenbach Fall"; Merlin, after season five's "The Diamond of the Day, Part Two."  
> Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters or stories. I am just an obsessed fangirl writing a fic.

 

_Los Angeles, California.  
_ _May 12th, 2013._

The Tardis door slammed behind her, and Clara reflexively looked upwards at the ceiling of the console room and mouthed an apology. She knew the ship wasn't her biggest fan, and she supposed being careless with its framing didn't help any.

"See, that was fun, wasn't it?" the Doctor was saying, a grin on his face as he dashed around the controls, trying to figure out where to take them next.

Clara rolled her eyes and followed him onto the deck. "That was  _not_  what I was promised," she pointed out for the hundredth time that day.

"Sure it was," the Doctor excused, but his smile faltered slightly and he stopped running around. "Hollywood Boulevard. Sunset Strip. Just as I said."

" _Present day_ ," Clara reminded him. She pulled her bright red purse over her head and placed it on the floor before leaning against the side controls, making herself at home. She crossed her arms and gave the Doctor a pout. "I could have jumped on a plane for that. You said 1920s! I wanted to see starlets—brush arms with Richard Burton, get mistaken for Audrey Hepburn."

"Oh,  _no one_  could be mistaken for her, that ol' devil," the Doctor reminisced with a smirk.

Clara carried on as though he had said nothing. "I did not want . . .  _this_!"

"This is better," the Doctor insisted.

Clara's face contorted into a "you've got to be kidding" expression. "Mm, not actually," she said.

"Was, too."

"No."

"You even got a magnet with your name on it! How  _cool_  is that?" He brandished a small alloy souvenir: a miniature American street sign reading Rodeo Drive, with Clara's name spelled beneath it in Scriptina font. It was something they'd paid far too much money for, something she could have gotten online for a fiver—but why would she want to? The Doctor, however, was beaming at it like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. The only reason she'd gotten it in the first place was because of him—because he asserted that the shop somehow knew she was coming, and could not comprehend that they make thousands of those cheap memorabilia on a daily basis for whiney children of every name to beg their parents for; and then to forget about three minutes later.

She raised an eyebrow at the cheap gift. "Doctor," was all she had to say to voice her unamusement.

"Oh, come  _on_!" the Doctor whined. "A space monk from the year 2380 trying to take over Brad Pitt's life. What could  _possibly_  be better?"

Clara feigned careful consideration before saying, "Not sure. Let me go get the list I've made up on the topic—knew it'd come in handy some day."

The Doctor deflated. " _Fine_ ," he said at last. "We'll have it your way."

Clara gave him a cheeky smirk as he turned his back to her and began fiddling with the controls, setting their course for the  _real_  1920s California. However, as soon as he flipped the first lever, the Tardis lurched, causing both passengers to stumble forward. Clara held on to the main console for balance, and she realized at once that the Tardis wasn't actually flying. She could not hear the roar the engines, there was no familiar vibration under her feet, and the monitors that read the external date and time were remaining the same. Still, the ship was rattling back and forth.

"Doctor!" she shouted over the noise. " _What_   _is happening_?"

The Doctor was making an effort to keep his balance and circle the console at the same time, trying to get the ship under control again.

"I don't—I don't  _know_!" he admitted, having to shout back from across. "We aren't moving!"

" _Clearly_  we're moving!"

There was a sudden voice from over the rattling, one that Clara had never heard before. It was the voice of a woman; she sounded Scottish to Clara's ears. She was saying only one word, over and over again, gaining in volume.  _Doctor_.

Clara's eyes went wide as they met the Doctor's, because he looked afraid—really and properly terrified, and she did not know why. He was frozen in place, his jaw slackened and his large eyes searching. Clara tried to call his name, to bring him back to her, but her voice was drowned out. She saw him mouth a short, two-syllable word, but could not hear it.

Then a bright white light emitted from the time router in the center of the console, and it quickly flooded the entire room until Clara could no longer see the Doctor in front of her. The light became too bright, and she was forced to close her eyes against it. Meanwhile, the ship continued to shake, and she yelled and groaned in the effort it took to hang on to the console.

Her hands were slipping as the tremors became increasingly more violent. Finally, she lost her grip and tumbled backwards. She expected her back to ram into the outer controls, and her heart skipped a beat when they never came. She fell through the void.

" _Doctor_!"

* * *

 _Camelot.  
_ _May 12th, 472._

His arms were folded across the windowsill of his chambers, and he peered out into the night sky. It was a clear night, not a cloud for miles, and Merlin could see the twinkling brightness of every star. He could not stop the corners of his mouth from pulling upwards ever so slightly as he recalled the time when he flew amongst those stars, however brief a time it was. Merlin sometimes thought it was a dream—a half-remembered memory from some other life—but he, more than most, knew what magic filled the world.

From behind him, he heard his chamber door creak open, and Merlin tore his eyes off of the past to see the Queen, the golden embroidery on her nightdress catching the flickering candlelight, as she entered.

"My Lady?" Merlin asked, his brow furrowing with wonder as to why she made the journey to his chambers so late in the evening.

"Hello, Merlin," she said, walking halfway into the room. "I'm sorry to disturb you so late, but I fear I'm at my wit's end. It's Arthur." She shook her head, worry in her doe eyes despite her elegant smile. "I think he may be ill."

"Ill?" Merlin wondered.

"Yes," she said. "His forehead is very warm. Would you mind taking a look at him? Please?"

Merlin could not refuse her. "Of course," he said, collecting Gaius' old medicine bag from off the wooden table in the center of the room. "It's no trouble."

He followed her through the shadows of the empty castle, and soon Merlin gazed down into the crib at the toddler, who cooed slightly to Merlin's touch. The child's dark skin was hot to the back of Merlin's hand, but he didn't suppose it was anything too serious. He flipped his hand over on Arthur's forehead, feeling the sweat matted blonde tuffs underneath—blonde, just like his father, Merlin had to remind himself. Sometimes he found that he was beginning to lose Arthur's face.

His eyes glowed a shining shade of gold, and the child's own blue eyes drooped and closed. Merlin straightened out and turned to Gwen, who was chewing on her thumbnail in anticipation.

"It's only a fever," he reported, and Gwen looked instantly relieved. "I've given him a draft to help reduce it, and I've put him to sleep for the night. He should be well by morning."

"Oh, thank you, Merlin," Gwen breathed.

"Well," Merlin said with a dutiful grin. "We don't want our future king running fevers for too long."

"Honestly, he fusses enough without a fever. He keeps me up half the night." For a moment, the Queen looked tired and weary.

Merlin had no response to this other than another pushed smile. "You  _did_  name him Arthur," he tried to joke. "They have a habit of keeping you to their schedule."

Gwen smiled at this. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Merlin," she said kindly. "You are very skilled."

Merlin blushed slightly and looked to his shoes. "I don't think so," he said modestly. "Now that you've raised the ban on magic, any sorcerer could have done what I've just done."

When he looked up again, Gwen was shaking her head and striding towards him. "Yes, but I doubt very many of them also have your skill as a physician. Gaius would be very proud."

Merlin smiled softly at the memory of his mentor, and broke eye contact with Gwen to remember Gaius' face. It had been nearly a year and a half since Gaius' passing.

". . . Arthur would have been proud, too," Gwen added, her palm over her heart and her eyes staring at the crib behind Merlin. He knew she wasn't talking about the Arthur inside it: for when she looked to Merlin again, her eyes were glistening, but she was strong enough to keep her cheeks dry.

Again, Merlin was at a loss for words, so he instead recollected his medicine bag and tucked it under his left arm. He crossed closer to Gwen and, with his free one, rested his palm comfortingly on her shoulder. She ran her soft hand over his wrist and smiled.

"Get some sleep, my Lady."

She nodded and released him. "Goodnight, Merlin."

He wished her a goodnight as well and bowed his way out of her chambers, making his way back to his own. Once there, he found the candle on the table had burned out, and was now emitting a thin stream of fragrant smoke from the wick. He did not light it again when he placed the medicine bag next to it, and instead let the rays of the full moon light his way through the darkness.

He let out a heavy sigh and dropped his shoulders, allowing the night to engulf him as he stood in the silence that seemed to hang in the chambers now that Gaius was no longer around—and Arthur was not there to fetch Merlin each time he needed to put a sock on. Merlin smiled at the memories of Arthur barging in unannounced, calling Merlin's name is aggravated neediness. The memory seemed so clear that Merlin could almost hear Arthur calling his name now . . .

No. But Merlin  _could_  hear Arthur calling him.

He snapped back into attention, looking wildly around the darkness for the source of the noise. It couldn't have been what Merlin thought it was—it  _couldn't_  have been him. And yet, he heard Arthur's voice as clear as a bell.

" _Merlin_."

It was barely a whisper, but it was definitely him.

"Arthur?" Merlin called back, his eyes wide and his heart pumping loudly in his ears. He wished he could silence it long enough to hear Arthur's voice again.

" _Merlin_."

Merlin spun around on the spot, his eyes meeting the door to his bedroom. There was a white light shining through the cracks in and under the door, and Merlin's mouth fell agape at the sight. He inched towards the door, and up the steps until he was able to place his open palm on the wood. It seared his skin, making him retract his hand quickly with a hiss.

The voice called again.

Merlin swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on the door as he ran through the possibilities of what could be happening. He could have been dreaming, or going mad, or perhaps someone or something was mimicking Arthur's voice to draw him in.

Or perhaps it was somehow— _impossibly_ —Arthur through the door. Was he willing to take that chance? Was he willing to believe as much as he wished he could?

Merlin summoned all of his bravado and straightened his spine. He knew that curiosity always tended to be a man's downfall, but he also knew—yes,  _much_ more than others—that there was magic in this world.

He placed his palm on the wood again and pushed through.

* * *

 _Lebanon, Kansas.  
_ _May 12th, 2013._

Sam yawned and laid the bloody axe on the long table, wanting nothing more than to fall into one of the cushioned chairs and call it a night right then and there; but his skin was sticky with crimson and dirt, and he knew he'd probably have to peel his clothes off before getting into the shower. Dean trailed in behind him; his shoulders slumped as he ran a palm down his exhausted face. He looked up at Sam.

"Ugh, c'mon, Sammy, how many times?" he yelled irritably. "No bloody weapons on the table."

Sam rolled his eyes and picked up the axe, muttering an insincere apology as he placed the weapon on the floor instead.

"Yeah, whatever," Dean mumbled back. He rubbed his tired eyes, making them bloodshot. "Doesn't matter, anyway. Wasted outing."

"It's not our fault nobody wanted to deal, Dean," Sam told him. "Vampires, Shifters, you name it—Crowley's probably got them scared running. None of them are gonna tell us where to find a demon. It was a long shot and you know it."

"And no demon to cure means no beating Crowley, I know," Dean said with a heavy sigh. "Look, man, we tried Plan B, but now we don't really have a choice here. We don't do somethin' quick, that sonovabitch is gonna kill more people—people  _we_  saved."

"I don't want that to happen, Dean," Sam said with a gulp.

"Never said you did," said Dean. "And that's why we stick to the original plan. We take out Crowley once and for all—there's nothin' for it."

Sam nodded, reserved.

"So, get some rest, brother," Dean told him. "Long day tomorrow." His face suddenly became worried. "How're you feelin'?"

Sam shot his brother a look. "I'm  _fine_ , Dean," he insisted, the words coming out like a knee-jerk reaction.

Dean scanned him up and down with pursed lips, unconvinced, but he didn't say anything else on the matter. Instead, he started towards the bathroom. "Alright, I'm hittin' the showers."

"What? No way, dude. Me first," Sam bickered, jogging towards the bathroom and blocking Dean's way through the door.

Dean groaned and shot Sam his do-what-I-say-because-I'm-older glare. "Get outta the way, Sam. I smell like a sewer."

"Yeah?" Sam challenged. "You're not the one covered in Vamp blood."

Dean raised a brow. "That what that is all over you? I thought you just got your period for the first time, Princess."

Sam tilted his head to the side, unamused, and Dean backed down.

"Fine," he said, turning around on his heels and starting towards his bedroom. "Don't take forever washing your luscious hair, alright?"

"I'm not the one who takes half-hour showers, Dean!" Sam called after him.

Dean faced Sam and kept walking backwards. He flourished his hand down his face and body like it was the main attraction at a high-class auction. "What? You think this just  _happens_ , Sammy?"

Sam rolled his eyes and stepped into the bathroom. "Gimmie five minutes."

Once he was sure Dean was in his room, he closed the door behind himself and rushed to the toilet, fumbling to quickly open the lid before vomiting blood into the bowl. He groaned in pain as he wiped his lips with the back of his hand before flushing the toilet and leaning back against the tub. He closed his eyes, able to feel his heart thump along every inch of his aching muscles, but that was good. That meant he was still alive. He allowed himself a few more moments of rest—just a second to breathe—before using all his willpower to stand up and turn on the shower.

A few minutes later, he was redressed and striding towards Dean's room, drying the loose droplets of water on his hair with a towel.

"Dean?" he called, trying to get his brother's attention before stepping into the doorframe of the bedroom and seeing Dean in bed. He was sprawled out on his stomach, still in his clothes, and twitching in his sleep. Sam immediately knew that Dean was having a nightmare, and he slackened his shoulders. He considered rousing his brother, but it was better to let Dean sleep. Nightmare or not, the older Winchester didn't get enough shuteye these days.

With his bare feet, Sam padded towards the lamp on Dean's bedside table and reached over to turn it off. Dean stirred slightly. He didn't wake up, but he mumbled, "Dad?" in a small voice. Sam's jaw tightened in empathy as he looked down as his brother's sleeping form, and he plunged the room into darkness.

He left the door open a crack when he exited, allowing for a sliver of light, and headed towards his own room, where he left his own door fully open, as he always did, simply because it was strange not sharing a room with Dean, and it was something he was still getting accustomed to on a regular basis. He turned off the light and fell asleep almost as soon as he hit the pillow—but it wasn't an easy sleep. However, that was expected: He hadn't had a good night in what seemed like forever.

But this dream was different. It felt almost real, so real that he thought he had actually woken up.

He was in the main room of the bunker again, staring around at the books and the polished table. The axe he had left there before was gone, replaced by Ruby's knife and the EMF detector. He wondered briefly how he ended up back in the room, and how he was fully dressed again.

"Dean?" he said, but got no reply. That unnerved him for a reason he could not explain, so he picked up the knife and headed towards Dean's room, calling for him again. The bedroom was empty when he pushed the door open fully.

"Sam," he heard, an echo bouncing off the walls.

He spun around into the emptiness. "Dean?"

"Sam."

But that voice didn't sound like Dean. It sounded like . . .

"Adam?" Sam swallowed hard, listening out for another call from his half-brother. Nothing came, and for a moment he was certain this  _was_ a dream. He ran his hands through his hair, willing himself to wake up.

 _What is this, some trials crap?_  he thought.

Adam called again.

His heart skipped a beat, and Sam decided that being calm could go to Hell. He ran across the main room, checking every door and every nook for a sign of Adam, but the voice was disembodied.

 _Ghost?_  he considered.  _No. That wouldn't make any sense._

He placed his palms on the table, urging himself to think, but all that came to his mind were flashes of his little brother in the Pit with him. Adam screaming. Adam begging. He was still down there, as far as Sam and Dean knew, but Sam tried hard not to think on that—to block the images from his memory when the guilt resurfaced in the dark nights. Survivor's guilt. He had convinced himself that there was nothing they could do for Adam. Hell, he'd even started believing it.

Was it possible Adam found a way out?

Suddenly, the EMF on the table sprung into life, every bulb lighting up and causing it to whirl. The noise took Sam by surprise, and he cocked his head at the device before pacing towards it and picking it up. He felt eyes on his back, and he turned around to look, but he saw nothing.

Literally.

Nothing.

In place of the walls and furniture was complete emptiness—just white. He gulped and looked forward again, met by the same nothingness.

"Dean!" he called desperately, his heart pounding in fear now. He was hit with the frequent sensation of having never left the Cage; that this was just another one of Lucifer's creative tortures.

Adam answered. "Sam," he said, his voice clear now. In fact, he was screaming—in pain. "Sam! Sam!"

" _Sammy_!"

He woke with a start, still gripping the knife and the EMF as Dean was on top of him, clutching his jacket. Dean looked worried but relieved when Sam blinked in confusion and sat up on the dusty floor. It took him a few moments to get used to what little light he had, but when he had done so, he saw he was in an old, disused room. Moth bitten curtains hung over the windows, blocking the moonlight from streaming in and painting patterns on the decaying bed and rotting wooden wardrobe.

"What the Hell?" he grumbled.

"You're tellin' me," Dean answered. He stood up and offered Sam his arm, which Sam clasped at the wrist and allowed his brother to pull him up. He wobbled slightly and it made him dizzy, but Dean was peering around at their new surroundings, so he didn't notice.

"How did we get here?" Sam wondered aloud.

"No clue," Dean admitted, looking back at Sam. "Last thing I remember, I was yellin' at you to hurry up in the shower and then . . ." His eyes flashed in memory, like he had just recalled something hazy.

"What?" Sam probed.

"I dunno," Dean answered. "It was a dream—I think. I was back in Lawrence . . . Dad was there."

Sam remembered what Dean was muttering in his sleep. He wondered if their nightmares were somehow connected.

"I had a dream about Adam," Sam told him.

"Adam?" Dean repeated, taken aback.

"Yeah, he was—" Sam licked his lips and shook his head. "He was calling for me. I never saw him."

"I saw Dad," Dean said ruefully, his face solemn and he stared into space. "He was pissed. Blamed me for how he died. Said he never shouldda made that deal. He came after me." Sam didn't know what to say, but before he could say anything, Dean continued, "There was this white light and I ran outta the house and all of a sudden, I woke up here."

"What if they weren't dreams?" Sam voiced his theory.

Dean shot him a glare. "Ya think?" he said sarcastically.

They heard a creaking of floorboards, followed by hushed voices from under their feet, and Sam saw his brother reach into his jacket and pull out his Colt. Dean's face was set in stone as he inched towards the door of the room and peered out it both ways.

"Clear," he said, lowering the gun slightly.

"They're coming from downstairs," Sam whispered, and Dean nodded.

"Check it out?"

Sam gripped the handle of the knife tighter and squared his shoulders, preparing himself.


	2. Chapter 2

They communicated mainly through military coded hand gestures and signals on the way down the hallway, trying to tread as lightly as possible. Dean had his wrists crossed one over the other, his revolver in one hand and his penlight in the other. Sam had stuffed the EMF into his jacket pocket and replaced it with his own small flashlight. Its pinprick beam hovered on the decaying walls, illuminating tiny bits of wood and ripped wallpaper as they walked. They peered into every room they passed, all of them seemingly bedrooms or bathrooms. A family lived here—not more than five years ago, it appeared—and Sam wondered what drove them away.

Soon enough, they found two flights of stairs, one leading up to the attic and the other going down. The brothers glanced at each other, both on the same page. Sam readjusted the knife in his hand and they descended the frayed carpeting of the steps.

Before they cleared the wall along the top of the flight, Dean held his arm out, stopping Sam from going any further. "You hear that?" he said, his voice as low as he could make it.

Sam furrowed his brow, puzzled for a moment, until a quiet pulsing sound reached his ears. It was strange, but he swore he had heard the sound somewhere before. He looked at Dean and nodded, and Dean bent forward to look beyond the wall.

"There's someone down there," he confirmed when he straightened back out.

"Who?" Sam wondered.

Dean gave him a glare. "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz," he hissed. "I have no idea, Sam! The dude's in the shadows." He leveled his Colt again. "Come on."

When they cleared the wall, Sam saw a gaunt silhouette standing by the far wall. The man ran the tip of a small, green light over the wood while muttering to himself, apparently too caught up in his thoughts to hear the stairs behind him creak softly. Dean and Sam got to the bottom of the stairs and fanned out to either side of the room, which appeared to be a living room that connected to a hallway beyond. The room consisted of dusty scattered furniture, a TV with an antenna on top, and—Sam clocked immediately—a main exit. The Winchesters trained their weapons on the man's back, careful to keep a safe distance, and block the exits.

"Hands up," Dean barked, shattering the silence, and the dull whirring of the device the man was waving along the walls stopped immediately. The figure went rigid.

"You heard 'em," Sam said, clearly letting the man know that he was outnumbered. "Do it now."

The man put his hands in the air in surrender, and Sam saw the thin device still held in one fist. "I'm not armed," the man assured them, and his voice was familiar. Sam looked sidelong at Dean to see if he was thinking it, too.

He was, and he lowered his gun infinitesimally.

"Doc?" he ventured. "That you?"

The dark figure's shoulders relaxed and he spun around on his heels and stepped forward into the moonlight pouring through the window.

"Dean and Sam Winchester," the Doctor said in his typical lighthearted fashion, while his usual mischievous smirk played on his lips. "Imagine running into you here."

Sam let out a breath of laughter and let his weapon swing loosely to his side. "Doc, what the Hell are you doin' here?"

The Doctor opened his mouth to speak, but before he got the chance, a shout—more like a battle cry than anything—sounded from the entrance to the hallway, and Sam and Dean spun around to see a short brunette charging towards them, holding up a firing pan. She attempted to bring it down on Dean, who seamlessly caught her wrist and forced it behind the girl's back, causing her to spin around and drop the pan to the floor with a clatter.

"The Hell were you plannin' on doin' with that, sweetheart?" Dean asked.

Clara struggled to get free. "Get  _off_!" she grunted, and when Dean didn't listen, she brought her boot down on his toes. He let out a yelp of pain and released her, and she picked up the frying pan again, holding it out towards him threateningly. Dean held his hands up in surrender.

"Right, Clara," the Doctor interjected. "Meet Dean and Sam Winchester. Dean, Sam—this is Clara."

"We've met," Dean and Clara said sarcastically at the same time before looking at each other in shock. Dean lowered his hands and Clara lowered the pan slowly, still eyeing each other with contempt.

"Doctor, who are they?" she demanded.

"It's alright," he assured her, taking a step forward so he was between the Winchesters, and he put a palm on either of their shoulders. "They're old friends. Eh, boys?" He gave their shoulders a squeeze and shook them. Sam couldn't help but smile, and Dean let his guard down.

Clara seemed to relax, too. "Good," she said decidedly, brandishing the pan again as though she had no idea what to do with it. "Probably wouldn't have been able to get the jump on you, anyway," she admitted and tossed the pan to the side. It clanged upon impact, and she jumped slightly at the noise before looking back at them with innocent eyes, a smile, and a shrug.

"Wait, Clara?" Dean asked suddenly, holding a palm out to stop the Doctor from talking. "I mean, no offense—" He got his first good look at Clara, eyeing her up and down swiftly, and he put on his best handsome grin. " _Really_ ," he reassured her before looking back at the Doctor. "But what happened to Amy and Rory?"

The Doctor's face suddenly fell. "They're gone," he said in a small voice, and the Winchesters knew what that meant; they'd spoken that line too many times themselves not to know. They both squared their jaws and gave the Doctor a grievous nod, having a small moment of silence for their old friends.

"Alright, new question," Dean said after a beat. "How'd you get here?"

"The Tardis," the Doctor answered promptly, and then reconsidered his answer. "Well,  _not_  the Tardis. We were  _in_  the Tardis, and then we were here."

"There was this bright white light and a voice," Clara said helpfully. "And then we woke up here."

Sam and Dean shared a look. "Whose voice?" they asked simultaneously.

"I don't know," Clara said irritably, then put her hand on her hip and raised a brow at the Doctor. "But, just going on record here,  _this_  is  _definitely_  not 1920s LA."

The Doctor pointed at her with the sonic. "Oh, don't you start," he said in an empty warning before flipping the sonic in the air, catching it, and starting to wave it over the wall again.

"Uh, okay," Sam said, following the Doctor with his eyes and trying to get the conversation back on track. "Any idea where we are? Or who brought us here?"

"Nope," the Doctor said passively. "Or how to get out, either."

Dean nodded towards the exit. "Door's right there," he said with a belittling grin.

The Doctor rounded on him and gave him a look while putting the sonic away. "Yes,  _smarty_ , and it won't open. We've tried."

Dean frowned. "Come again?"

"Try it if you don't believe me," the Doctor challenged with a wave of his hand.

Dean glanced at Sam before crossing towards the door and leveling the Colt. He emptied a few rounds into the doorjamb, and the wood of the frame splintered, but the door would not open when he tugged at the knob.

"The Hell?" he said, sotto voce.

"Doors won't open, windows won't shatter, walls won't splinter," the Doctor provided, saving them time.

"It's the same in the kitchen," Clara reported

"Basement?" Sam asked as Dean rejoined the group.

"No windows," the Doctor said. "Just cement."

"The roof, then," Dean shot back.

"Can't imagine there's access to it. This is an old house," the Doctor said. "Besides, even if we could get to it, it's too high up to jump."

"Shit," Dean muttered, voicing just how stumped both Winchesters were.

Before anyone else could even think, a large crash sounded from upstairs, causing dust from the ceiling to sprinkle down on them. They all looked up in unison.

"Don't suppose you've brought anyone else with you?" the Doctor hoped.

Sam swallowed hard and tightened his jaw.

Dean made eye contact with him. "Nope."

* * *

There was something soft beneath him, too soft to be his own bed. When he opened his eyes, it was to an unfamiliar room, and there was very little about it that was recognizable to him. There were dirty windows with broken shutters, dressers and chairs; but then there were the little essentials of living that were new to his eyes: such as lamps or the digital clock radio that hadn't been turned on for years. Merlin sat up on the quilted mattress and swung his feet off the edge, trying to get his bearings or at the very least remember how he got there.

"Arthur," he said under his breath, the memory flooding back to him at once. He had heard Arthur calling for him, but where had it led him? He took another sweeping look around the room. Arthur wasn't there, and he couldn't think of a single reason why he would be in such a place. Especially because this wasn't Camelot—he could feel it. Even the air was different.

He took a step towards the window, attempting to peer outside passed the filth, but when he tried wiping the glass clean with his shirt sleeve, it only smeared further and allowed even less visibility. It appeared to be night, anyway, so Merlin didn't guess he would see much beyond the window if he could. He crossed towards the dresser and pulled open the drawers, searching for any clues as to where he was. Something caught his eye inside one drawer: a pair of folded jeans that he picked up for further inspection. He ran his hand over the coarse material, racking his brain as to where he'd seen it before.

After a moment, he gave up wondering and decided to move on. He placed the jeans down on top of the dresser next to a lamp, which he furrowed his brow at curiously. He picked it up, momentarily surprised by the resistance when the slack of the cord ran out. Then he turned the lamp upside down, inspecting it, trying to figure out what it was for.

_Doesn't matter_ , he decided, and placed the lamp back down again, but this time too close to the edge of the dresser. It began to tip, and Merlin fumbled for it, but he was too late and object fell to the battered hardwood and shattered loudly. He bared his teeth shamefully at the mess and at his own clumsiness, and then he discretely kicked the shards into the gap between the floor and the bottom of the dresser.

Next, he opened the door to the walk-in closet, immediately separating the hanging clothes: trousers and dresses and shirts. They seemed to be both men and women's clothing, but the styles were foreign to him. He lifted a sleeve on the man's side, revealing a tartan pattern—a design which he instantly recalled seeing only once before.

"Sam?" he thought aloud.

* * *

Sam and Dean had their weapons out again as they made their way upstairs and stalked closer to the room that the sound came from. It was a room Sam had looked into on their way down the hallway the first time, and he was certain it had been empty. All four of them crowded next to the closed door, and Sam noticed that Clara was clutching the frying pan again, and he tried not to roll his eyes.

Instead, he grasped the round doorknob and looked across the entrance to Dean, who gave him a nod to go ahead. He licked his lips and squared his shoulders, and mouthed as he counted off on his other hand.

_One. Two_  . . .

He tore the door open.

* * *

Merlin heard the floorboards creaking from the corridor and, not for the first time, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He took a few steps closer to the door, trying to listen out for any conversation, but his heart was pumping in his ears and his magic was buzzing underneath his skin in preparation.

In the crack under the door, Merlin watched the dismal strip of light get blocked out and he saw the rusted knob jiggle slightly. He narrowed his eyes at it and stopped breathing for a moment that felt like an eternity. Finally, the door swung open.

Merlin jumped back in surprise and trained his palm threateningly at the intruders, willing to use magic against them if necessary. Before him, a monolith of a man burst through, holding up a knife; behind him was a slightly shorter man brandishing a handgun. Finally, a brunette girl and a man waving about a noisy green-lit tipped device piled in.

Merlin recognized the group instantly, but he had to blink once or twice to convince himself that they were really there.

From across the room, Sam's eyes brightened and he gave a breathless smile, looking just as shocked and just as pleased about the reunion as Merlin felt. " _Merlin_?" Sam said as though he couldn't quite believe it.

"Sam!" Merlin shouted happily, at let out a loud, breathy " _ha_!"

Sam chuckled as they rushed to meet in the center of the room, and they threw their arms around each other. "What the Hell are you doing here?"

"No idea!" Merlin told him, his tone still light. The embrace broke, but they kept their hands on each other's shoulders, sizing the other up and taking in just how much they had each changed. "I was hoping  _you_  could tell me that."

"Well, Hell, it's good to see  _you_ ," Dean said, placing his gun into his pocket. He walked over as Sam and Merlin parted. "Thought we'd have to take out a demon or somethin'. A wizard, I can deal with."

Merlin smiled in his direction. "It's good to see you again, too, Dean." He gazed behind Sam. "And you, Doctor," he said, his smile becoming softer. Whatever was going on, he trusted the Doctor to sort it out. Of course, he could have done so on his own, but there was just something about the Doctor: he made you braver.

The Doctor was beaming as he walked over, followed by the short woman behind him. "Well, if it isn't Merlin," he said. "I feel better already."

Dean scoffed. "What are we,  _wood_?" he said, affronted.

The Doctor shot him an awkward look before turning to his friend. "Clara, Merlin; Merlin, Clara," he introduced quickly, pointing between them and Clara shook Merlin's hand.

"Wait,  _Merlin_?" she asked. "The actual Merlin?" She gave a snort of laughter. "What, is King Arthur gonna pop out next?"

Merlin's expression suddenly became solemn, and he couldn't meet any of the eyes that now fell on him.

"He died," the Doctor said somberly. "Didn't he?"

Merlin nodded, and Sam was looking at him like he immediately realized what was different about Merlin—something he couldn't put his finger on before.

The Doctor pressed his lips together, shooting Merlin concerned eyes. "I'm sorry," he said simply.

Merlin caught his glance, and he suddenly remembered that the Doctor knew when Arthur was meant to die. He could have told Merlin; he could have prevented this. For a moment, Merlin felt his heart drop. He wanted to scream. He wanted to hate the Doctor, but he couldn't. After all, it wasn't the Doctor's fault. So he simply nodded and looked to Sam, who was giving him the same sad eyes as the Doctor.

A whining sound started up from some place close, and Sam let out a small sound of recognition before shoving his hand into his pocket and taking out the EMF. The red bulbs flickered up and down, and Dean moved to stand next to his bother and survey the device.

"Thing's goin' nuts," he muttered.

Sam pointed the EMF in various directions, causing the lights to decrease and slow their blinking. When he pointed it to the door, the sound intensified and the lights jumped and became steady. Dean took out his gun again and the two started for the corridor.

Merlin, the Doctor, Clara filed out after them, but the EMF stopped completely as soon as they were on the other side of the threshold.

"What the Hell?" Sam wondered aloud.

Dean shrugged. "Maybe there's still some juice left in the electricity."

But the Doctor shook his head. "Checked that before," he said. "Nothing. But I wonder . . ."

"What?" Clara implored.

"Well, when we were downstairs, the sonic screwdriver picked up these strange particles—echoes of matter." He explained, "Almost like someone had copied and pasted the entire room into existence."

"Like an illusion?" Merlin voiced, trying to put it into words he could better fathom.

The Doctor snapped his figures and pointed at Merlin in confirmation.

"What, like this place isn't real?" Dean asked. "Then where exactly  _are_  we?"

"No idea," the Doctor said with a smile, rubbing his palms together and thoroughly enjoying this. "We'll find out. Search the house for anything that could give us a better idea." He started pacing between the group, counting off. "So, let's spilt up, gang. Clara—keep an eye on the Winchesters, eh? Merlin, you come with me." He started down the hall.

Merlin watched after him, furrowing his brow before giving a wistful look to Sam. "Why me?" he called after the Doctor, feeling somewhat singled out.

The Doctor spun around. "Why not?" he said, shrugging his hands into the air beside him. "Oh, and Sam, keep the EMF on—see if it picks up anything."

Sam nodded. "What about you?"

The Doctor waved the sonic. "I've got this. Works just as well but, if that fails, I've got him," he said, nodding at Merlin before turning around once more. "C'mon, Merlin."

Sam and Merlin exchanged a look before Sam gave an exaggerated frown and started towards the opposite end of the hallway with Dean and Clara. Merlin looked over his shoulder and followed them with his eyes before sighing and heading in the direction in which the Doctor had disappeared.

* * *

Sam, Dean, and Clara had taken the third floor of the house, which turned out to be much more than the attic they were all expecting. It was littered with more rooms, which appeared to consist of a home office, a small work out room, a children's play room, and a library, to name a few. They decided to start in the office closest to the steps and work their way down the hallway. Sam was sitting at the oak desk, searching its contents, while Dean sifted through the filing cabinet and Clara peered at the display case.

"She's very influential, whoever she is," Clara was saying. She picked up a framed picture from one of the case's shelves and studied it before revealing it to Dean. "Bill Clinton," she said with an impressed smile. Sam looked over to glance at the picture, which depicted a tall, suited black woman shaking hands with the former President. Clara shrugged and replaced the picture. "I'm guessing that's her, as well."

"She looks like some kinda lawyer," Dean reported, flipping through one of the files. "Margaret Germaine. You think that's her? Says here,  _Attorney at Law_."

"Yeah, looks like she was good enough for the Supreme Court," Sam said, shuffling around the papers in her desk. "Check it out—government seals."

"So, you think one of her cases came back to bite her in the ass?" Dean wondered aloud. "She took the little tikes and headed tail?"

Sam shrugged. "Could be."

"That doesn't explain why we're here," Clara told them. "Or where  _here_  even  _is_ —well, other than in America."

"Yeah, better keep looking," Sam agreed, standing up. "I'm gonna go get started on one of the other rooms." He looked at Clara. "You coming?" She nodded, so Sam turned to Dean, who was still flipping through assorted files. "Dean?"

"Yeah, yeah—gimmie a sec," he said distractedly. "I'm almost done lookin' through these. Go ahead. I'll catch up with you in a minute."

Sam shrugged and he and Clara started out of the room, leaving Dean to it. He took the EMF out again as they walked, scanning it along the walls and doors.

"What does that thing  _do_?" Clara asked, looking at it warily.

"Reads electromagnetic levels in the room," Sam explained shortly. "When there's like, a ghost or a cursed object, the levels go up."

"Or someone could just be microwaving something," Clara challenged with a smirk.

Sam chuckled. "Maybe."

"Well, it doesn't  _look_  like a ghost detector," she went on. "Looks like a kid's gaming toy."

Sam frowned down at it, somewhat defensively. "It's, uh—it's homemade."

* * *

Dean slammed the drawer of the filing cabinet closed. He hadn't learned much, but he found out that Supreme Justice Margaret Germaine had a private practice in Massachusetts. As the dates of the files went up, the location changed to Washington, D.C., where Dean assumed she stopped freelancing to work solely for the government. The files weren't dated passed the winter of 2005. Of course, none of that told him why Margaret decided to up and leave her fancy life one day. However, if Dean had learned one thing, it's that everyone had some kind of skeleton in their closet.

Wondering if Sam and Clara had made any more headway, he decided to follow after them; but, when he turned to face the doorway, he saw something that nearly made him jump out of his skin. He stumbled backwards into the filing cabinet, making it topple over with a crash, bringing him down with it. He was back on his feet instantly, and his eyes went straight to the corner of the room, where he had seen—no. No, it couldn't have been him. Dean was just stressed and overtired. He must have been seeing things.

Because that couldn't have been Bobby.

* * *

"So, is this what you two do?" Clara inquired. "You and your brother? Chase ghosts—like Scooby-Doo?"

Sam considered this. "If you're asking if we ever pulled a mask off someone to find out it was Mr. Jenkins the whole time, then no."

"Too bad," Clara reposed. "No offense, but Dean would definitely be Freddy."

Sam let out a choked laugh. "And, let me guess—you'd be Daphne?"

Clara looked offended. "Absolutely not!" she said. "Velma was  _much_  cooler." She bit her lip and looked him up and down. " _You'd_  be Daphne."

Sam snorted but before he could think of something else to say, the sound of the heavy filing cabinet falling reached them. He instantly felt his heart jump. "Dean?" she shouted, not waiting for an answer before rushing back into the home office. They found Dean staring at the corner of the room next to the door, posed to pounce if he had to, but all the color had been drained from his face. His eyes flickered towards Sam and Clara.

"Dean? What is it?" Sam asked, worried. The EMF answered for Dean. It began to buzz wildly, the red lights spiking. However, as soon as it started, it began to die away. "What the—?" Sam breathed, holding out the device; but whatever it had sniffed out was gone. He waved it around some, trying to pick up the signal again, but it was useless.

Dean paced over to them. "Anythin'?" he asked, and Sam could hear the anticipation in his brother's voice.

"No," Sam said, and he relaxed the tension in his shoulders, letting himself breathe.

This was a mistake.

All the adrenaline from running must have been keeping him upright, because the pain finally caught up to him. There was a sharp ache in his head and, letting out a groan, he pinched hard against the bridge of his nose and skewed his eyes shut.

Dean was at his side in less than a second, placing one hand on Sam's back on the other on his chest for support. "Sam, you alright?" he demanded. "Talk to me, man."

Sam tried to collect himself as best he could. "I'm fine—I'm alright," he lied, shaking Dean off of him. He felt moisture on his upper lip and ran the back of his hand across his nose; when he looked down it, he saw fresh crimson.

Dean saw it, too. "You're  _not_ , Sam," he said, worry etched in his tone. "No, way. No. I'm benchin' you."

Sam rounded on Dean. " _What_?" he protested. "Dean, you can't—"

"Yes, I  _can_ ," Dean confronted. "I saw a couch downstairs. I want you to go lay down on it for awhile."

Sam glanced at Clara, half apologizing for this little spout and half looking for support. She was just trying to stay out of the way, but remained at a curious distance. So Sam looked back at his brother.

"No," he said, trying to keep himself calm. "We don't even know what we're up against. I'm not sitting this one out, Dean. You might need me."

Dean huffed, and after a moment of consideration, he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a red felt marker. "Fine, you want in?" he said, giving the ultimatum. "Take this. I want you to ward this place—head to toe, you understand? Start downstairs— _where the couch is_."

Sam clenched his jaw, wanting to shout at Dean, but Dean shot him a warning glare and gave the pen another forceful jab in Sam's direction. The annoyance in Sam's eyes didn't waver as he snatched the pen from his brother and started down the hallway.

"And call me if you need anything!" Dean yelled after him, the same bossiness as before still in his tone.

Dean looked down at Clara, as though he realized for the first time that she was still there, staring right at him. " _What_?" he challenged.

A smirk played on Clara's lips as she held her hands up in surrender and turned around to walk. " _Nothing_!" she assured him.

* * *

The Doctor had been flying from room to room, passing his sonic screwdriver along every wall before swiftly moving on. Merlin could hardly keep up, as he was attempting to rummage through the house for clues. He finally caught up with the Doctor back in the corridor.

"There you are," Merlin said, exasperated. The Doctor didn't reply, and it was only until a moment later that Merlin realized the Time Lord was paying particular attention to an empty doorway. He furrowed his brow at the Doctor, noting the troubled look in his eyes.

"Doctor?" Merlin said, trying to get his attention. "What is it? You look as though you've seen a ghost."

The Doctor snapped back into reality and turned his neck to look at Merlin. "Ghost?" he said, somewhat defensively. "Don't be silly." He spun around and started walking again, this time at a pace Merlin could keep up with.

"So, this brave new world," the Doctor said suddenly. "How are you coping with it?"

Merlin shrugged slightly. "Alright, I suppose. I always assumed life would be different in the future—ever since I met you." He let out a sigh, looking around in wonderment. "I'd never dreamed of  _this_. But, no . . . I'm fine." He always knew the Doctor and Winchesters were from a different world than him, but it never really hit him until that day. "I suppose I'll have to get use to the change. I have to keep my world big," he continued. "It's funny—Arthur's world was small. He kept it that way. To him, there were only the lands of Camelot, and anything beyond that was either friend or foe—but foreign, almost as though they didn't belong to the same world."

"Here be dragons," the Doctor said, and Merlin nodded. "Well," the Doctor went on, giving the sorcerer a nudge. "What about you?"

Despite himself, Merlin smiled, and looked the Doctor in the eyes out of the corners of his own. "I do not fear dragons, Doctor."

"Never said you did," said the Doctor airily, but then his expression deepened and it was as though the room itself grew darker. "But you are afraid of something, aren't you?"

Merlin looked away, his heart in his throat.

"What if—" He closed his eyes, and visions of the light going out in Arthur's irises filled his mind. "What if I never see him again, Doctor?"

"You will," the Doctor said surely.

Merlin did not share in his confidence. "And until then?"

As they continued walking, the Doctor shrugged, his blinking sonic screwdriver a beacon in the darkness. "You'll watch the world grow old," he said. "And you'll grow old with it."

Merlin let out a breathy laugh. "I'll be like you?" At this, the Doctor smiled sadly.

The sonic screwdriver began blinking faster, and the Doctor stopped walking immediately and held it to his face. "The electromagnetic levels have skyrocketed," he reported. How the Doctor knew how to interpret the sonic's readings, Merlin did not know.

At that moment, however, Merlin was at a loss for something else. "The  _what_?" he asked with a chortle. The Doctor always said the strangest things.

"Do you feel that?" the Doctor said, lowering the screwdriver again and looking at him. "The chill in the air? The hairs on the back of your neck standing on edge? Like you're being watched?"

Now that he mentioned it, Merlin did feel a sudden sense of paranoia.

"It's not the electricity," the Doctor rambled on, pressing his ear against the tattered wallpaper. "That's been out for years. What is it?" He straightened out again and held the sonic forward, slowly passing the green tip from door to door. He stopped at the door to their right, slightly down the corridor. "That way."

Merlin followed him to the door, looking behind him every now and again, all senses telling him to run—run now, because someone was watching his every move and wanted to attack. He was aware that the Doctor said it was only the side effects of whatever the sonic screwdriver had picked up on, but Merlin had learned to trust his gut over the years, and it was a hard habit to break. He couldn't chalk it up to paranoia.

"Doctor," he tried in a harsh whisper, but the Doctor pushed the door open and ran through, leaving Merlin no choice but to follow.


	3. Chapter 3

"What's wrong with your brother?" Clara broke the silence, no longer able to hold it in.

Dean studied her for a moment as they walked, all sass and daring and unwavering intelligence. "What makes you say something's wrong with him?" he answered, but he assumed nothing would get passed her.

"Well, he looks bloody awful, for starters," she said, and then more seriously, "And you treat him like you're worried about him."

"I am," Dean admitted. "Long story."

"Long corridor."

"Cliffnotes?" Dean succumbed. "Basically, we're tryin' to close the gates of Hell, and Sam's stuck doin' these three trials set up by God to slam 'em shut and throw away the key. And they're messin' with him."

He looked at Clara to gauge her reaction. She had her thin brow arched. "You do know how crazy you sound, right?"

Dean scoffed. "Comin' from the girl who travels in time with an alien."

"Touché," she said. "So how many ghosts do you think are here?" she changed the subject after a beat, nudging him to get his attention. "Want to make a wager on it? I say at least a dozen."

Dean raised a brow at her. "Who says this place is haunted?"

Clara shrugged. "Well, it's got to be, hasn't it? An old manor that we were all swept up to. It's like an abandoned insane asylum—all those are haunted."

Dean used his flashlight to peer around the hallway, clocking everything. "Yeah, well, that's true," he agreed passively. "Doesn't mean all abandoned mansions are though."

Clara grinned. "You obviously have no idea what you're talking about," she teased. "I don't even believe in ghosts; or, at least, I didn't. Not before I met the Doctor. But now I suppose anything is possible."

Dean stopped walking and turned to her, flashing a smirk of his own. "Well, if you're scared, I could always comfort you," he offered.

Clara rolled her eyes and pushed passed him. "I'd rather take my chances with the ghosts."

Dean shrugged it off, but when he turned to follow after Clara, she let out a sharp gasp and stumbled backwards into him. He instantly kicked into gear, holding up his Colt and crossing it under his flashlight at the wrist. He spun around to follow her line of vision, which was an opened door to the library at the end of the hallway. Nothing was there, so he relaxed.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Did you see that?" Clara asked breathlessly.

"No," he answered. "What?"

"It was . . ." Clara took a few pensive steps closer to the threshold. "It looked like my mum," she said softly. "But . . . She died when I was a girl." She looked over her shoulder at Dean with a mixture of fear and curiosity in her big eyes.

Dean shot her a supportive look, but he didn't have time for an apology—not when he remembered what he had seen in the other room. Maybe he wasn't going crazy, after all? Or maybe Clara was just seeing things? Whatever it was, it was gone now.

"What were you saying about taking your chances with ghosts?" he asked.

Clara looked back at the empty doorway. "What were you saying about this place not being haunted?" she answered wittily, but she still sounded spooked.

* * *

As soon as he had passed to the other side of the threshold, Merlin instantly felt more at ease. Whatever sensation he was feeling, it had evaporated. He peered around the dark room, which had apparently been the bedroom of a young girl at some point. Porcelain dolls sat atop the dresser, their painted blue eyes fixed on the small dusty bed in the center of room, on which another doll rested against the pillows.

Next to him, the Doctor was tapping the tip of the sonic. "I've lost it. I lost the signal," he complained, a look of annoyance about his face. "Just—POOF! Just like that! It's gone!"

"What was it?" Merlin implored as the Doctor dropped to the carpet and started sonicing under the bed, trying to find any residual trace of the signal.

"Don't know," he admitted, and there was a look of frustration on his face when he stood up again. "It's like it was never here." He tapped Merlin on the forehead with the sonic screwdriver; and perhaps it was meant to be a playful gesture, but it hurt more than it should have and it made Merlin let out an "ouch" as he rubbed at the now tender spot. The Doctor took no notice. "We should get back to the others," he decided. "Maybe they've had similar experiences."

He briskly started out of the room. "Come on."

* * *

The tip of the marker squeaked as it passed over the dirty glass, and Sam put the cap back on after the sigil was complete. He'd made sure to mark every door and window until the first floor was covered. Hell, he'd even put a Devil's Trap at the base of the fireplace. At least now nothing could get in, but that didn't mean they had a way out.

He squinted out the window he stood before, looking into the darkness outside the house. There was a rickety old porch, with still wind chimes and a stationary rocking chair.

"Huh," Sam thought aloud. "No wind."

Beyond the broken steps of the porch, however, seemed to be nothing for miles. It was a forest, surrounding the manor on every side, but no matter what floor of the house he was on, Sam could only make out the thick trunks. The canopy, wherever it was, appeared to stretch up to the sky. He also noticed something else about the woods: the trees weren't staggered. Instead, they were perfectly aligned, as though on a grid, like in a child's drawing or a caricature of the world.

He frowned thoughtfully at his reflection in the glass, and then he saw a figure over his shoulder. It was hazy and distant, only a dim silhouette in the reflection, standing in the threshold to the hallway; but the figure looked familiar, and Sam thought for a moment it was Dean.

When Sam turned around to face the spot where the figure stood, it was gone.

"Dean?" he called, pacing towards the entranceway. There was no answer.

Suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, warning him that he was in the presence of someone else—someone behind him. His guard up, he spun around, prepared for anything . . .

But, perhaps, he wasn't prepared for any _one_.

He reeled backwards until he bumped into the back of the couch; his wide eyes staring petrified at the tall, blond man before him. He had a crooked grin on his features, his arms stretched out as though inviting Sam in for a hug.

Sam gripped his hand automatically, searching his palm for a scar that was no longer there to help him differentiate reality from fantasy, so he did the only other thing he could think to do.

"Dean!" he shouted as loudly as he could, and didn't stop shouting until the pounding ache in his head made him double over. When he dared to look up again, the man had disappeared, and Sam heard two pairs of footsteps stampeding down the staircase, and two more pairs rushing down the hallway.

"Sam! Sammy!" Dean called as he jumped over the last three steps. Clara was right behind him, and Merlin and the Doctor had come to a sliding halt on the other end of the room.

Dean crouched down in front of Sam to be level with his face, putting his strong hands on Sam's shoulders in attempt to calm him. "What is it, Sam?" he said, trying to keep the worry out of his voice, but the look in his bright green eyes betrayed him.

Sam looked behind Dean's shoulder to convince himself one last time that it had been in his mind—which only made him feel worse, since the last time this had happened, he ended up in Intensive Care.

"I—I saw someone," Sam managed to say, catching his breath.

"Saw someone?" Clara wondered, her own fear now growing. "Saw someone like I saw someone?"

"What? Who did you see?" the Doctor asked her quickly.

"My mum," was the answer.

"Your  _mum_? Your  _dead_  mum?"

"Never mind that!" Dean demanded before looking back to his brother. "Sammy, who did you see?"

Sam gulped and looked Dean in the eyes, but he didn't answer. But Dean knew—there was only one person who could scare Sam that much.

"Sammy!"

Sam clamped his jaw. "You know who, Dean," he said after a beat.

Dean took in a deep inhale, tensing his shoulders and looking as though his worst fear had finally come true. "Lucifer?" he asked, and Sam nodded in confirmation. "He's gone, Sam. We locked him up tight and he ain't comin' back."

Sam nodded feverishly, but there was a deep pit in his stomach. "I know," he told Dean nonetheless.

Dean helped him to his feet, and gave him one last surveying look before patting him on the shoulders and releasing him. Then he turned on the Doctor. "What the Hell is goin' on, Doc?" he barked.

The Doctor appeared thoughtful. After a moment, he pointed to Clara and said, "You said you saw your mother. Where?"

"Up in the library," Clara answered. "Why?"

"Anyone else?" the Doctor went on, ignoring the question.

"What? See my mum?"

"No! Did anyone else see anyone? Besides Sam, of course—I think we've got that settled."

Dean stammered slightly. "I dunno," he said, and Sam looked down at him curiously. "Maybe."

"Who?" Sam asked, returning the worry.

Dean gave him a quick side-glance. "Bobby," he said. "Just for a second. I thought I was just seein' things—and then Clara said she saw her mom. And now you . . ."

Sam looked at the Doctor, almost able to see the cogs turning behind his eyes. "What about you? Did  _you_  see anyone?"

The Doctor looked up at him, and he nodded after a moment, but he did not say whom it was. Then the Time Lord turned to Merlin. "Who'd you see?"

Merlin looked taken aback for a moment. He opened and closed his mouth a few times as though not sure what to say. "No one," he said, shaking his head.

"You must have," the Doctor told him.

"I didn't," Merlin told him earnestly. "I saw no one."

"How did you get here?" the Doctor then asked him. "You heard someone, didn't you?"

"Like that voice in the Tardis?" Clara said, connecting the dots. The Doctor nodded at her.

"And me and Sam—we saw our Dad and our half-brother," Dean informed them.

"Arthur," Merlin told them. "I heard Arthur calling for me, and I followed the sound."

"So, what? Ghosts?" Dean thought, not quite believing it himself.

"Can't be," Sam continued for him. "I mean—Dad, Bobby, Adam. We burned their bones, Dean. And I'm guessing Clara's mom didn't die here, so why would she be haunting it?"

"Beats me," Dean said, stumped. "So, ghosts that aren't ghosts? How does that make sense?"

"You're supposed to be the experts," Clara reminded them. "You tell us."

Sam and Dean exchanged a look, but neither of them had an answer.

* * *

They had gone through the cabinets of the old house and found a couple cans of old beans, but not much more. There was a tin of salt as well, which Sam and Dean thought was a good thing for one reason or the other, and insisted they keep it close. There were also bowls and utensils, and a few grubby pots. They took the cleanest looking one to cook the beans. Sam tried to turn on the stove, but said it wasn't working because the "electricity" not working. ( _There's that word again_ , Merlin thought, wondering what it meant.) Therefore, he and Merlin got a fire going in the hearth. They cooked the beans while Dean and Clara searched for more things to use to keep the fire going, and while the Doctor went off to explore the rest of the manor to see if there was anything he'd overlooked.

"So, uh," Sam broke the silence. "Listen, sorry about Arthur. Guess you're pretty broken up about it, huh?"

Merlin pursed his lips. "Is it that obvious?"

Sam gave an amused smirk at this. "Almost as obvious as me and Dean when we get separated." He watched Merlin reach into the hearth and stir the beans thoughtfully.

"Where have you been?" he asked, changing the subject. He didn't want to talk about Arthur. "I thought you might be traveling with the Doctor. Were you?"

Sam shook his head, and maneuvered himself from his squatting position to sit on the dusty floor. "No," he said, somewhat contritely. "Just not the life for us, I guess."

Merlin saw right through that. "But you wished . . .?"

Sam nodded and said with a sigh, "Sometimes."

"I often wished I had, too," Merlin admitted aloud for the first time. He stared into the vat of beans. "I thought about you, and the Doctor—wondered where you were,  _when_ you were—more and more often recently. I would sometimes stay awake at night, listening out for the sound of the Tardis or watching the sky for a sign."

"Yeah, I know the feeling," Sam confided. "But you look good, man."

"You don't," Merlin couldn't help but notice.

Sam let out a half-laugh. "Yeah," he said. "Long story. Remind me to tell you later."

"I will," Merlin promised. He studied Sam for a moment, taking in his condition. "But whatever it is," he dared ask, "do you foresee yourself coming out of it alive?"

It was Sam who broke eye contact now. "Honestly? No."

Merlin nodded solemnly. "Is there anything I can do?"

"There's nothing anyone can do," Sam answered, perhaps a touch too quickly. He cleared his throat awkwardly and changed the subject. "So, uh. How long has it been for you? I mean, since you last saw us?"

Merlin considered the question. "Nearly . . ." he thought, "six years. What about you?"

Sam smiled weakly. "Almost two," but gave no more detail beyond that.

"And the Doctor?"

Sam shrugged. "One? One hundred? One thousand? Who knows?"

Merlin shook his head. "Long life."

"Yeah, and he still looks young," Sam agreed. "Lucky guy, huh?"

"No."

Merlin didn't mean to say it out loud, but he did. Sam's smile fell instantly, and his eyes were large and sad when they met Merlin's, but there was a hint of understanding in them, too. Merlin averted his gaze, and worked on filling two bowls with what little beans they had. He handed a bowl to Sam, who thanked him a little bit awkwardly.

"Can I ask," Merlin started, clearing his throat after a beat. "When you shouted—your brother said Lucifer."

Sam tensed slightly and nodded.

Merlin could see he didn't want to talk about it just yet, so he smiled softly and tilted his head to the side, surveying Sam. "Another long story?"

"For a rainy day," Sam confirmed. "A rainy  _week_."

Just as Sam was about to take the first bite of his beans, his eyes flashed and he dropped his spoon with a splash back into the bowl; his mouth hung open in something nearing shock. Merlin knitted his brows together in confusion until he realized Sam wasn't look at him, but rather behind him.

"What is it?" he asked, looking over his shoulder at the corridor where Sam's gaze was fixed. He saw nothing.

"Did you see her?" Sam asked hurriedly, scrambling to his feet.

"See who?" Merlin asked, following Sam with his eyes. "Sam?"

Sam rushed towards the entrance of the corridor and looked both ways, trying to catch another glimpse of whomever he just saw. Merlin picked himself up and followed after him as Sam started down the hallway.

"Sam, what is it?"

"It's, uh—It was Jess."

Merlin wrinkled his nose. "Who?"

Sam finally faced him. "My girlfriend," he said. "My  _old_  girlfriend," he added carefully. "She died like, ten years ago."

Merlin shook his head throughout this explanation, fishing for Sam's attention. "No, no. Sam, you heard what your brother said—and Clara. They can't be real; you said it yourself."

"Yeah, but like, what if they aren't ghosts?" Sam tried, too hopefully, Merlin thought. "Or what if they—I don't know. What if they're trying to tell us something?"

Merlin took in a sharp inhale. He couldn't bear to take away the hope in Sam's eyes. "Like what?" he asked.

Sam stood up straight and ran his hands through his hair, deep in thought. "I dunno," he said after a beat. "C'mon, maybe she's still around. Help me look for her." Sam started off down the corridor again, and Merlin had to follow.

They checked every room of the first floor before Sam's determination led them up the stairs, where they decided to split up. Sam took the rooms down the hallway, while Merlin was left to those closer to the stairwell. He picked a door.

Merlin stepped into the room, the floorboards groaning beneath him in threats to cave in under his weight with each new step. It was similar to the room he had been in with the Doctor, but this one appeared to have belonged to a boy in his early teens. Its discolored wallpaper had once been a deep blue, and the walls were littered with various trophies and faded sports team photographs. Merlin paced towards the nightstand and saw a small plastic brightly colored toy on the top—a box with wheels beneath it, or so it appeared to him. He placed his index finger on the top of the toy car and gave it gentle push, watching as it rolled to the edge of the stand and toppled off.

He knelt down and picked it up, but when he stood again, he caught his reflection in the mirror above the stand and jumped slightly at the person behind him. After a moment of panic, he realized the newcomer was only himself: The mirror was ricocheting the reflection of the full-length mirror on the direct opposite side of the room, causing there to be a line of Merlins—hundred and thousands of them. He stared blankly, watching himself go on and on forever.

"Merlin?" came a sudden voice, and Merlin looked up to see Sam in the mirror next to him. He pushed a faint smile to his lips and craned his neck to face Sam. "Find anything?"

"Nothing," Merlin admitted. "You?"

"Nah," Sam said and leaned against the doorframe. "But, I mean, it  _was_  Jess. She was  _right_  there." He shook his head and let out a soft chuckle. "I feel like I'm going crazy, ya know?"

"Then we all are," Merlin told him. "Everyone's seen someone in this house, haven't they?"

"Yeah, except you," Sam reminded him.

Merlin let out a bitter laugh and turned back to his reflections. "If I should be so lucky," he whispered. He knew who would haunt him.

Before Sam could answer, they heard a door slam forcefully down the hallway. They both jumped, on edge, and rushed out of the bedroom.

"It's one of the rooms I just checked," Sam told him.

"Is anyone else on this floor?" Merlin wondered.

"They're all upstairs."

Sam and Merlin looked at each other for a long moment, each of them daring the other to take the first step. It was Sam who finally squared his jaw and headed towards the closed door, Merlin in tow. Merlin could hear his heart pumping in his ears, and he was certain he could hear Sam's, too, as Sam reached for the doorknob and opened it. Merlin recognized the room as the little girl's room he had seen before.

"This room," he said, stepping into it. Again, he felt a presence he couldn't quite pinpoint. "The Doctor picked up something on his sonic screwdriver here before.  _Electro_ —"

"Electromagnetic?" Sam offered, and Merlin nodded. "So you think that  _does_  mean ghosts?"

"I don't know what it means." He took a wistful look around the room. "But it just feels like, whatever these things are, they're leading us here—to this spot. And I can sense something—some _one_."

"Who?"

Merlin shook his head, wishing he had more to offer. Then a thought struck him. "But I may know how to find out."

* * *

"This is stupid," Dean complained. "C'mon, man. It's like playing with a frikkin Ouija board!"

"Let him do what he needs to do. It's better than twirling our thumbs," Clara reprimanded, and Dean fell silent.

They sat in a circle on the floor of the girl's bedroom, mix-matched colors of new and old candles that they'd found in the house in a smaller circle between them. The Doctor lit the last candle with his sonic and sat down next to Merlin.

"Gaius used to tell me about séances he would attend in the days of the Old Religion," Merlin explained. "The High Priestesses used to call upon spirits, to help them move on. Maybe we can use it to find out why all your friends and family are returning to you."

"Yeah, we know how a séance works, kid," Dean said impatiently.

"Dean," Sam, Clara, and the Doctor scolded congruently. Dean looked between them, licked his lips, and shut up.

"Right, so," Merlin said, offering his hands to the Doctor and Sam on either side of him. They both placed their palms into his, and the rest of the circle did the same. Merlin stared at the center of the ring of candles, willing his magic to bubble to the surface, and said the incantation he had remembered from one of Gaius' books.

Even when he felt his eyes fade back to blue, nothing happened for a long time, and it seemed as though even the entire house was holding its breath.

Suddenly, the flames flickered, and a muffled scream sounded from downstairs. Each of them sprang to their feet reflexively and ran towards the sound, which came from the main room. However, when they got there, everything was still; but Merlin stopped dead in his tracks as though something physical had halted him. He could feel a crippling weight on him, and it was disorienting. It made him feel sick, and he turned a pale color.

Across the room, The Doctor took out his sonic and flashed it around, watching it blink wildly. "Something's here," he reported, but as he said it, the green tip's flashes began to slow. "No! No, no,  _no_!" he shouted. "Come back!"

But the sensation was only rising in Merlin, making him feel more and more nauseous by the second. He clutched at his throat, feeling as though he was going to vomit. No one noticed him. They were all too busy searching the room: Dean and Sam with their weapons, the Doctor with his sonic, Clara with a torch. Merlin tried to call for their attention, but his throat constricted.

"Sam," he croaked, and his eyelids started to feel very heavy, but Sam did not hear him. He forced himself to swallow, and said somewhat louder, "Doctor!"

The Doctor spun around, and his expression instantly changed from panic to worry. "Merlin?" he called, and Merlin saw the Doctor rush towards him in a fog, and then everything went black.

* * *

"Merlin!" Sam shouted. He looked over just in time to see the wizard's eyes roll to the back of his head before collapsing heavily onto the floor, causing loose dust to fly into the air.

The Doctor was the first one to respond, and he slid to his knees at Merlin's side and hunched over him. "Merlin? Merlin!" he slapped Merlin's cheeks a few times in attempt to wake him up, but nothing happened.

Sam, Dean, and Clara stood over them, giving the Doctor some space as he flashed the sonic over Merlin. Sam watched as it began to blink violently, and it gave out a shrill whine.

"Doc, what is it?" Sam asked, worried.

"All the electromagnetic readings in the room—" the Doctor whispered.

"What?" Dean prompted. "What readings? I thought you lost them."

The Doctor stammered. "Exactly! I  _did_! There weren't any—they're all  _gone_!" He gestured to Merlin's limp form with upright palms. "But they've all converged on him!"

"What are you talking about?" Clara demanded.

"Look!" The Doctor jumped to his feet and dashed to the other side of the room. He held up the sonic, and the others waited for something to happen, but nothing out of the ordinary did. When the Doctor was confident they got the message, he bounded back towards Merlin and pointed the sonic at him. It began to blink rapidly again. "See?"

"What the Hell?" Dean breathed.

"I don't know," the Doctor said.

"How d'we wake him up?" Dean asked.

"I don't  _know_!" the Doctor answered, louder now.

"Alright, alright," cut in Clara, stepping forward and taking charge. "Let's just make him comfortable for now," she said. "I'll find some blankets for  _all of us_. We could all do with a bit of rest—to  _think_  and sort this out properly. Get him on the sofa for now until I can find something—" She turned her nose up at the dust ridden couch. "— _cleaner_. Now, come on, Doctor."

While they went to find the linens' closet, Dean and Sam heaved Merlin onto the couch. It didn't take long for the Doctor and Clara to return, however, and they spread out blankets on the ground, deciding to give Merlin the area closest to the fire to keep him warm.

It was then that Sam realized they ought to blow out the candles they had used upstairs, lest they accidentally burn the old manor to the ground with them inside it. Dean accompanied him towards the room, both of them on edge as they walked, searching for a glimpse of another lost relative or friend.

"I don't get it," Dean said at last. "I mean,  _ghosts_? Fine. Hell, that's  _easy_. But Bobby? Jess?  _Clara's_ mom? None of them died here, Sam! How could they be haunting it?" Dean shook his head. "Especially Dad and Bobby—you saw what happened to their spirits. How's this even possible?"

Sam shook his head in thought. "Maybe it's ghosts disguised as other ghosts?" he said, pulling at straws.

"Great, now ghosts are masters of disguise. That's  _awesome_ ," Dean said bitterly.

"Yeah, and now this thing with Merlin," Sam said. "I dunno, I just feel like . . ."

"What?" Dean stopped walking and turned to his brother. "Sammy,  _what_?"

Sam licked his lips and shrugged. "It's just—Bobby, Lucifer, Jess—they didn't stick around for long, right? We just got glimpses of them and then they were gone."

"Okay," Dean said, trying to follow.

" _Okay_ , so maybe they  _couldn't_  stay for long," Sam voiced his theory. "Say it  _is_  another ghost disguised as them. Maybe it wasn't strong enough to get all the way through, ya know? But what happened downstairs—Merlin, the electromagnetic fields. I mean, Dean, that was  _big_."

"You think the séance strengthened the ghost?" Dean said.

Sam took in a breath. "Maybe," he allowed. "I just can't help thinking, whatever Merlin did—he opened the floodgates."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Frikkin  _séances_ , man!" he groaned. "I  _knew_  it was a bad idea!" He turned back around and shifted into the bedroom, and Sam followed.

However, when they got inside, they saw the candles had already been extinguished—recently, too. Small spirals of gray smoke curled into the air, catching the moonlight. There were also two objects in the center of the circle of candles, and Sam and Dean moved in closer to get a better look. They knelt down next to the circle and Dean put his flashlight on one of the objects: an antique glass doll that looked familiar. Sam looked up at the bed where he had seen the doll before, but it was no longer against he pillow.

He looked back down at the circle, picked up the second object and held it to his face, and shown his light on it. He turned it around in his palm a few times: a small, bright plastic toy car.


	4. Chapter 4

" _Merlin_."

He was gasping for air, but none filled his lungs; in its place, was a thick murky liquid. He felt like he was choking and sputtering, a dense airless wall on every side of him, making his insides collapse under the pressure.

" _Merlin_."

He twisted his eyes open, but all he saw was darkness. He tried to call out for the Doctor, but more of the dense liquid filled him. It tasted brackish in mouth.

" _Merlin_."

There was a steady thumping in his ears—one he instantly recognized as a heartbeat, but it seemed too distant to be his own at times, and yet it seemed to be one with his own heartbeat. It was as though the sound was coming from his chest and connecting with the reverberations in the darkness all at once. He searched the gloom for the source of the noise, and of the voice calling his name. It sounded like an echo from somewhere far away; just a shout carried over the water.

"Arthur!"

To his surprise, he was able to say it. The call came out of him as clearly, ringing through the water. He shouted it again, at first to test whether or not he could pull it off once more, and then because he knew it was the only thing he could say at the moment. Again, he called out for Arthur, now because he so desperately wanted to find him there.

" _Merlin. Merlin_  . . . Merlin!"

All at once, he felt something shaking him, while something else knocked him in the gut. He let out a sharp gasp at the pain and bolted upright from the floor, and his eyes shown a bright gold for only a moment after they shot open. The first thing that came into focus was Sam's desperate expression as he chanted, "Whoa, whoa, whoa, you're alright." He had his hands on Merlin's shoulders as his eyes searched the wizard's.

Merlin looked passed him at the rest of the group that had crowded around, and at the shadows on the decaying walls dancing in the firelight. He clutched at the moth bitten blanket underneath him and shivered.

"You were dreaming," Sam told him, and gave him a pat on the shoulder. "You alright?"

Merlin nodded weakly, but he could not speak. He felt as though his mouth was still full of water. He averted his eyes to the floor to his left, and caught a soft blinking green light in his peripheral. It was the sonic screwdriver, which lay abandoned next to the hearth. It was pointing towards the staircase; it's tip blinking rapidly, as it had done before. Merlin furrowed his brow as he watched it.

"Merlin," he vaguely heard the Doctor say. When he turned to meet his eyes, the Doctor, along with the rest, were staring behind Merlin. Some wore a face of confusion; others, mixed expressions of fear and readiness; and others were completely indistinguishable. They were looking at the staircase. Merlin felt his spine go rigid, and he turned his head uneasily to look over his shoulder to follow their gaze. What he saw standing at the foot of the stairs nearly knocked the wind out of him.

"A—Arthur?" he breathed, his mouth hanging agape. Arthur didn't move. He stood in his chainmail, staring at Merlin, his expression unreadable. Merlin didn't take his eyes off Arthur when he maneuvered his body around and stood up from the floor. He paced a few steps to the King, but did not dare go any closer after a point.

"Merlin?" Arthur struggled to say the word, and his voice sounded like the creaking of an old, unused door. His flesh looked pale, and his chainmail beaten and battered. There was still blood staining the links where Mordred had stabbed him. But he looked solid. He looked real.

Merlin had half a mind to pinch himself, but instead filled the gap between himself and Arthur. He walked with such vigor and speed in his steps that it seemed as though the turning of the Earth beneath him had slowed slightly. In an instant, Arthur was wrapped in his arms. He nuzzled his chin into the rusting chainmail of Arthur's shoulder, and he felt a familiar gloved hand grip the back of his head as Arthur's other arm embraced him at the waist. He let out a shaky laugh, and feared his face would crack if he smiled any wider.

Arthur's expression was equally bright as he pulled out of the hug to survey Merlin's face. He put a palm on each of Merlin's cheeks, and Merlin felt how cold he was to the touch, even through the leather.

"You're real," Arthur was saying, almost as though he didn't believe it, and Merlin's face fell slowly. The light in his eyes faded to dread, because he knew this couldn't be Arthur.

"But you  _can't_  be," he told Arthur in an almost whisper. Arthur looked as though Merlin had just kicked him. His hands slid from Merlin's face. He used one to squeeze Merlin's shoulder reassuringly.

"It's me," he assured Merlin. "I'm here."

Merlin saw him look over his shoulder, seeing the others for the first time. Merlin didn't want to take his eyes off Arthur for fear that he might disappear, but risked it to glance at the Doctor, who was now making his way to stand next to Arthur. He circled around the King for a moment, as though to size him up. Merlin stepped back and let him do so.

"What is he?" Dean's gruff voice said from behind Merlin. Merlin heard every defense in the man's tone. "A ghost?"

The Doctor poked Arthur's chest, and Arthur instantly recoiled, a look of disgust on his face.

"Merlin, who are these people?" he demanded, and Merlin noted a hint of fear in his voice.

The Doctor overlooked all questions. "Clara," he said, holding his palm out and not taking his eyes off Arthur. Clara obviously knew what he was asking, because she instantly ran to collect the sonic screwdriver and then flew over to the Doctor to hand it to him. She looked at Arthur quizzically before she backed away from them.

The Doctor watched the sonic blink for a moment, and frowned. He ghosted it over Arthur, the tip turning a steady green and emitting a buzzing sound as it did so. Again, Arthur tried to step away.

"Just—" Merlin said to Arthur, hating that he had become one of the Doctor's science experiments but knowing it was the only way to get answers. "Let him."

Arthur looked warily at Merlin, but did not step away again as the Doctor circled to his left and soniced him once more. He held it upright and checked the readings.

"Hmmm," he groaned.

"What is it, Doc?" Dean asked.

Arthur turned his glare on Dean. " _What_  is it?" he said, affronted. "I'm the King of Camelot."

"Not who," the Doctor muttered, and Arthur again looked at him with his nostril curled up. " _What_." The Doctor snapped and pointed at Dean. "Good question. He seems real enough—nothing . . .  _spectral_. But, just to be sure, you hunt ghosts—you have an EMF detector."

"Sure," Sam said, and bent down to search through the mess of blankets on the floor. Soon, he pulled out the small metal box that instantly started humming like the Doctor's screwdriver. Sam handed it to the Doctor, and it continued to buzz softly when he scanned Arthur with it.

But then the Doctor turned, pointing the device at Merlin. The lights on the device jumped and the humming became louder with each step the Doctor took towards Merlin.

Merlin eyed the box cautiously. "What is that?"

The Doctor ignored the question. "You were shouting for Arthur," he said matter-of-factly, but Merlin could see his mind racing.

"So?"

"Your eyes flashed gold," the Doctor answered in the same tone as before.

Merlin gulped, his eyes looking from the Doctor to the box in his hand. He clasped his hand over the device and jerked the Doctor's arm downward, forcing him to lower the EMF. He stepped away from the Doctor and made his way back to Arthur. He felt his smile forming again. "It's really you?"

"I wouldn't say that," the Doctor answered for Arthur. He scratched his hairline with the sonic screwdriver and began to pace. "He's—he's a projection. A  _copy_  of himself, just like the house." He stopped pacing and his eyes met Merlin's. "An echo."

But Merlin couldn't accept that. Whether it was too soon for Arthur's return or not, that  _was_  Arthur. He wasn't disappearing like the others had, after all. He was standing right there, looking at Merlin with pleading and confused eyes.

"What he is, is exhausted," Merlin said, perhaps more forcefully that he'd intended. He grabbed the King gingerly by the arm. "Sit down, sire." He led Arthur to the couch and smacked dust off the cushions as best he could before helping Arthur to sit down on it. "Are you hungry?" he said as soon as he was sure Arthur was comfortable. Arthur blinked up at him and stammered in response, which Merlin took as a yes. He immediately ran to the fire and scraped the remaining beans out of the bottom of the pot and put them into a bowl. He was back at Arthur's side soon enough, now having to push passed the group that had congregated a short distance in front of the sofa. Sam and Dean exchanged looks as Merlin passed them. He shoved the bowl of beans into Arthur's lap, and Arthur merely gaped at it, as though the prospect of eating was foreign to him.

Merlin sat down next to Arthur on the dusty part of the couch, his body still facing the King. He nodded at the bowl. "It's good," Merlin promised, smiling brightly. He couldn't help but think of how right it felt to serve Arthur again.

"I'm not—" Arthur began, seeming overwhelmed. "Thank you, Merlin, but I'm not hungry." Merlin's smile flickered.

"Arthur," came the Doctor's kind voice, but Merlin eyes shot daggers at him. He ignored the glare and relieved Arthur of the bowl, handing it off to Clara. He knelt in front of Arthur, searching the King's eyes for any abnormalities. "How did you get here?"

Arthur's jaw line became rigid, and he shook his head slowly after a moment. "I don't know," he replied honestly.

"What's the last thing you remember?" the Doctor implored.

Arthur considered this, and Merlin was sure he would say he last remembered dying. However, what Arthur said was, "There was a woman. She spoke to me. The next thing I know, I was here."

"What woman?" the Doctor asked, and Arthur shook his head.

"I don't know! She was very pretty," he offered. "She had red hair." And then, "Who—who are you? Why am I telling you all this?"

"I've just got one of those faces," the Doctor said passively. "But this woman, what did she say to you?"

Arthur appeared to be thinking again, as though he was trying to remember a dream. "It was a message," he said. "I think it was a message for you." He looked to the others at this. "To all of you."

"What message?" Sam asked before the Doctor could.

"She said she wanted to play a game," Arthur said, sure of himself now.

"A game?" said Dean incredulously. "What game?"

"Let him think," Clara scolded Dean, extending her palm to silence him.

"I'm getting to that," Arthur said, his eyes now back on the Doctor's. "She said she wanted to show you what it was like to not exist," he went on. "She said you'd have to fight your way back into the world—you'd have to find a door. But you can only open the door in a world in which you exist."

"What the Hell does that mean?" Dean demanded, and everyone's gaze fell on the Doctor.

"Parallel world," he whispered, a look of realization on his face. He stood up. "We've been trapped in a parallel world—in which none of us have ever existed."

"A parallel what?" asked Arthur.

"Trapped by who?" Dean wondered.

The Doctor shook his head, thinking hard. He gestured to Arthur. "This woman, you said she wanted to play a game. What do we get if we win?"

"You get to live," Arthur answered promptly, and Merlin glance shot to him immediately. Arthur's response sounded too automatic, and it made Merlin feel sick.

"And if we lose?" Sam broke his silence.

"Well, isn't that obvious?" said Clara. "We die."

"Not die," said the Doctor ominously. "We'll have never lived—here, at least. We'll be trapped . . . But why trap us in a parallel universe for this? What's the point?"

Arthur shrugged. "I have no idea what you're talking about." He looked next to him. "Who are these people, Merlin?"

Merlin's lips became a thin white line as he looked to Sam, to the Doctor, and back to Arthur. "Friends," he said at last.

The Doctor was still rambling. "Say we  _are_ in a game. Then this—" He spread out his arms and spun around slowly, gesturing to the dark room. "—must be level one. And we need to find a door. A door that can only be opened in a world in which we exist, you say. That means we have to find a way  _back_  into our universe—or at least _communicate_  with it; get someone else to open the door for us. But what's beyond that door? More doors? More obstacles? Level two?" He abruptly looked back at Arthur. "What else did the woman say?"

Arthur stammered, and Merlin had just about had enough of the Doctor's drilling. "Enough!" he demanded, hovering a protective arm across Arthur's chest. "That's enough, Doctor. He needs rest." He looked at Arthur sympathetically, remembering how cold he felt when he placed his hands on Merlin's cheeks. "You're cold," Merlin said. He got to his feet and retrieved the old blanket he had been sleeping on next to fire. He circled behind the couch and draped it over Arthur's shoulders, and resumed his place next to him on the cushion. He busied himself with pulling the blanket further down the King's shoulders.

"Merlin, this isn't necessary," he was saying.

"I'm your manservant, Arthur," Merlin reminded him.

"And since when have you  _ever_ doted on me like this?" Arthur responded. "What will you sleep on? You must get cold."

"I'm laying by the fire. It's warm enough, and I slept on a floor for my entire childhood," Merlin said, stopping what he was doing and giving Arthur a genuine smile. "I don't need it."

Arthur didn't appear like he believed Merlin, but looked appreciative and said nothing.

"Merlin," said Sam, and he appeared before Merlin. He squatted down to be level with him. "Listen, man. We gotta find these—these  _doors_  or whatever, like the Doctor said."

"So find them," Merlin snapped, and immediately felt guilty.

"Okay," Sam said patiently. "But we're gonna need him." He nodded to Arthur. "He's the only one who has any idea what we're up against."

Merlin looked at Arthur vigilantly for a moment, and then relented.

* * *

Arthur had agreed to help them in any way he could, but had no information passed what the woman had told him. Merlin was thankful when the Doctor let him be, and the others let the exhaustion of the day wash over them; but Merlin was too wired for sleep. She sat at the base of the sofa, watching the embers in the fireplace across the room crackle and fizzle out. There was a soft movement on the cushions behind him, and he turned his head to see Arthur swing his legs over the side of the couch and sit up.

"I can't sleep," he told Merlin, running his hand through his hair. "Too many—" He tapped at his temple and rattled his head.

"Thoughts? Now I know we're in trouble," Merlin joked.

"Very funny," Arthur said dryly. "But yes." He let out a sigh and studied Merlin up and down for a moment. "How do you know these men, Merlin?"

"They're just friends," Merlin said with a shrug, looking down at his lap.

"Are they sorcerers?" Arthur asked, his voice concerned.

"No," Merlin said immediately. "Well, the Doctor: who knows?"

Arthur didn't seem to find this funny.

"They helped me save your life once," Merlin went on after a beat.

Arthur wrinkled his nose at this. "What?"

"Do you remember the statues Queen Annis sent to you for your wedding present? And she sent her maids along to deliver it?"

Arthur nodded, confused.

"They weren't from Annis," Merlin told him. "They were from Morgana. She planned to have the maids kill you."

"And you stopped them?"

Merlin nodded, feeling a bit satisfied with the recognition. "With the help of the Doctor, and Sam and Dean."

Arthur looked at the sleeping figures across the room and nodded in thought. "Then I owe them a debt of gratitude," he said, although Merlin could see it was against his better judgment. "They're very peculiar men," he went on, voicing his true feelings.

Merlin grinned. "They aren't from Camelot."

"Yes, I gathered," Arthur replied. "Where are they from?"

And Merlin knew Arthur would never believe the next thing that came out of his mouth. He winced and decided to say it anyway: "The future."

"Oh, come on, Merlin," Arthur said, as Merlin knew he would.

"I mean it," Merlin insisted. "The Doctor has a ship that can travel across time and space. I've seen it myself."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Look around you, Arthur," said Merlin. "Clearly, this isn't Camelot. The Doctor can travel through time, and somehow so have we."

Arthur gave his confused face, clearly grasping for anything that could bring the conversation back into his realm of understanding. "And you just trust them blindly?"

"I trust them with my life," Merlin said.

"Why?"

"Because I trust them with yours," he said flatly, and Arthur met his eyes. "And I wouldn't trust them if I wasn't absolutely sure—not with that. Not with  _your_  life. And what's my life compared to yours?" He felt the pressure last few years finally building up inside of him, threatening to overflow; the same pressure he had felt since the moment he first spoke to the Great Dragon in the dungeons of Camelot—the moment he stopped living for himself and started living for Arthur—only now with the added crushing weight of eternity. "What has my life  _ever_  been compared to yours?"

"I don't think that's true," Arthur told him. "Where would I be without you?"

Merlin shook his head. "Probably alive."

Arthur looked down at the floor, not knowing what to say. "How is it—the Kingdom? And my men?" he decided on.

Merlin shrugged, bringing his attention back to the fire. "All is well," he told Arthur, who seemed relieved. "There's finally peace—not just for Camelot. Everywhere. But there's something else." He looked at Arthur, wondering if now was a good time to say it, but he might not get another chance. "You have a son."

Arthur looked as though he had a weight dropped on him.

"Gwen discovered it shortly after your death. He'll be two in the autumn." Merlin smiled. "He has your namesake."

Arthur let out something between a choke and a laugh and folded his fists before his lips, getting used to the idea of being a father. But Merlin noted a hint of sadness in his eyes, hating that he'd never know the boy.

"What's he like?" Arthur couldn't help but ask.

"He's beautiful," Merlin told him. "Healthy, strong."

"And Guinevere? How is she?"

Merlin nodded reassuringly. "Yeah, she's a good mother—and a good Queen. The people love her. Camelot is a fair and just place for all."

Arthur lowered his fist, studying Merlin again. "And you?"

Merlin considered the question, feeling his heart drop slightly, but he nodded after a beat. "I'm well," he said, not knowing if he was lying or not, so he stuck to the facts. "I'm Court Physician now. Well, that's my official title, since magic isn't yet completely integrated into the Kingdom—but Gwen has been very good to me."

"Court Physician. That means . . ."

Merlin pressed his lips together and confirmed Arthur's beliefs.

Arthur looked shaken by the information. "I'm sorry to hear it," he said simply, and then, "When?"

"Shortly before the baby was born," he said, remembering. "It didn't give me much time to prepare for the birth on my own."

Arthur raised a brow, not quite believing it. " _You_  delivered my son?"

Merlin nodded, not without pride. "That's right." He was the first person to hold the child—the first face Arthur's son knew.

"Well," Arthur said, straightening out. "Thank god you didn't manage to mess that up." And Merlin took that as a thank you.

"You're welcome," he said, elbowing Arthur in the knee, and Arthur smiled down at him.

"It is funny though," Arthur said as though a thought had just occurred to him. "Servants and common men, now the most powerful people in Camelot. My father would never approve—but I know the Kingdom is in good hands. I wouldn't have it any other way."

Merlin frowned in thought. "I never thought of it that way," he admitted. "But I'm not a servant—not anymore. Gwen granted me my freedom a long time ago."

"Really?" Arthur said incredulously. "And how are you finding it?"

Merlin shrugged again. "I can come and go as I please. My mother enjoys that." His face fell. "It's not the same without you."

"No, it's better. It seems like everyone is thriving. I should have died ages ago," Arthur said, attempting to mask the bitterness in his tone with gratitude.

"Don't say that," Merlin said, shaking his head at Arthur. "We'd have nothing if not for you. You weren't just our King, Arthur; you were our friend. Everyone misses you."

"You?"

"Well," Merlin teased, easily falling back into their usual banter. "On occasion, I suppose. I have much more free time on my hands, and I don't always know what to do with it."

Arthur chuckled. "It certainly seems like you have everything you've ever wanted."

"Yeah . . ." Merlin whispered, thinking on this for a moment. He never imagined life would go on without Arthur; but, somehow, when he wasn't looking, it did. At least, it did for everyone else.

Really, Merlin knew he should have been happy. Arthur was right, after all, in saying Merlin had achieved everything he'd always longed for: freedom, acceptance, maybe even recognition—but, if he was being honest with himself, he hated every minute of it. It all seemed so useless without Arthur—like he was performing card tricks for children. Peace was just so boring. He missed the adventure of it all, and part of him even missed hiding his magic. He secretly longed for the days when he would run through the forest during the late hours of the night, shielding King and Country from the newest threat that had arisen.

But lately his heart and mind had to learn to cope with resting—and that just wasn't  _him_. Or perhaps it was. He couldn't be certain anymore. He'd been at Arthur's side, protecting him, for so long that he had forgotten what life had been like before it. He could not quite place himself in the world without Arthur.

"Why didn't you tell me, Merlin?" Arthur asked suddenly, and the look in his eyes broke Merlin's heart. "Did you not trust me?"

"It's not that!" Merlin assured him. He took in a shaky breath, letting the memories of his time with Arthur overcome him. "But  _you_  trusted  _me_. I did not want you to feel that trust was betrayed." Still, the fact remained that he hid who he truly was every day because of Arthur, and the knowledge of this was written all over the King's features.

He looked apologetic, but he nudged Merlin playfully. "You could give me another chance," Arthur told him with a smile. "Perhaps you and I could do it right this time over."

Merlin grinned sheepishly as he licked his lips and looked down. His eyes darted back to Arthur's. "Yeah, maybe I will," he played along.

That seemed to please Arthur very much. "Anyway, We should get some rest," he decided. "Who knows what tomorrow will bring?" He laid down flat on the sofa again and stared up at the ceiling, but Merlin did not stir. "Goodnight, Merlin."

Merlin felt a smile tug at the corners of his lips as he watched the rest of the fire die away. "Rest well, sire."

* * *

He hadn't expected to, but somehow Merlin had drifted back to sleep. For the first time in years, it was a peaceful, dreamless sleep. He awoke slowly at first, sitting upright on the floor with his back still pressed against the couch where Arthur lay, and his right arm outstretched along the length of the cushions while his left rested loosely on his lap. He was slightly aware of the weight of a blanket draped over his chest, and he grinned sleepily into the warmth.

Without yet opening his eyes, he slid his arm backward on the couch, expecting to hit Arthur's chainmail shirt, to wake Arthur up. It took him only a moment to realize his arm was sliding too far back. Merlin's stomach dropped as his eyes tore open, and he frantically jerked his head around to look at the empty couch. The blanket draped over him fell and bunched on his lap as he used both hands to search the top of the cushions, as though he thought Arthur had gone invisible. His mind was blank, all but for the racing word of "Arthur," and his mouth felt dry.

It wasn't until his wit fully returned to him, and he decided to glance over the rest of the room, did Merlin find the King. Arthur was standing at a safe distance next to the Doctor, who was on all fours inspecting a large black box with a dark reflecting screen in the center. It reminded Merlin of the monitor the Doctor had on the Tardis, but it was blank. Clara was on the other side of the box, tampering thin colorful wires that stretched out from the back of the box and across the floor. She was complaining that there wasn't anything she could do without "power." The Doctor was bickering right back.

Arthur had his eyes fixed on them both, his brows furrowed and his arms crossed tightly across his chest. He looked down on them with interest, but also with concern, almost as though he didn't know quite what to make of them or their actions.

Merlin realized that, as much as he loved being a part of this motley crew, Arthur would not feel the same way.

He tossed the blanket on his lap aside and made his way over to the group. He stood next to Arthur without anyone noticing his presence, all too wrapped up in what they were doing. There was a pause before Merlin realized he would have to say something to be noticed.

"What are they doing?" he asked Arthur, nodding towards the box.

Arthur glanced over at him, and then back to the others. "The  _Doctor_  says this is some kind of communication device."

"Not technically," the Doctor corrected, sitting back on his ankles and looking up at Arthur and Merlin. "It's usually one-sided, but if I can get it to act like a transmitter instead of a receiver, we may just be able to talk to people outside of—," he gestured vaguely around, "— _here_."

"We'll need electricity first," said Clara, popping her head of from behind the box. "Not much of a telly if it isn't hooked up to anything."

At that moment, Sam and Dean returned. Sam was holding a PC desktop, but to Merlin it only looked like a smaller version of the box the Doctor and Clara were working on, only much flatter; and Dean was holding the keyboard.

"Anythin' on?" Dean asked, and Clara shot him a glare and puckered lips, which did not seem to faze him at all. "Yeah, I'm guessin' that thing doesn't have Cinemax."

From behind his brother, Sam rolled his eyes. "We found a computer," he said. "But I can't see how we're gonna use it without wifi."

"Or power," said Dean.

The Doctor dropped his shoulders in defeat, but Clara looked very pleased. When the Doctor looked back at her, she shrugged her right shoulder and smirked smugly.

"Yes,  _fine_ ," the Doctor said in a defeated voice. "No electricity. But who said we don't have power!" He turned to Merlin and beamed. "We have unlimited power."

Merlin knew straight away what the Doctor was talking about, and he let out a sigh. "What do you need?"

The Doctor jumped to his feet and tapped the top of the so-called telly. "Think of it as a horn," he began. "You can hear it from miles away—and that's exactly what we need it to be. If we can connect with the outside world, I can link the transmission up to the Tardis. She'll find someone who knows us—and we can get them to open that pesky door."

Arthur and Merlin exchanged glances, and Merlin could tell that Arthur had absolutely no idea what the Doctor was saying. In fact, Merlin himself had understood very little, but Arthur gave him a nod of okay nonetheless. Merlin stepped forward and flattened his palm against the top of the television. He racked his brain for an incantation that would possibly come remotely close to what the Doctor was asking for, and he eventually settled on one. He preformed the spell, and the box instantly jumped to life. It glowed and hissed, the reflecting surface turning to what looked like a mass of thousands of black ants scurrying around a white surface. It made Merlin jumped back in fright, and Arthur looked as though he was ready to defend himself against an attack if need be. Sam and Dean chuckled at them, and Clara sympathetically tried not to laugh. The Doctor, however, was putting his face close to the screen and pressing the tip of the sonic screwdriver to it.

"What the  _Hell_ is that thing?" Arthur demanded.

The Doctor craned his neck to look at Arthur.

"Our ticket home."

The static on the screen broke for a moment, and Merlin swore he saw the face of a man on the screen. He blinked, trying to decide whether or not that actually happened, but then the static parted again, and the image asserted itself.

"Cas?" Dean said instantly, letting the keyboard drop the floor and pushing towards the TV screen. "Cas, can you hear me?" He looked to the Doctor. "Can he hear me?"

"I can hear you," Castiel said, his voice sounding even more gruff than usual as it emitted from the speakers. "Where are you? I've been searching for you both all night."

"Us? You're the one who skipped town," Dean told him, almost as though he just remembered he was angry at him, despite how happy he was to see Cas.

"I didn't skip town," Cas replied. He continued somewhat awkwardly, "I was grocery shopping."

"You were  _what_?" Dean asked.

"They didn't have pie," he said apologetically.

"That doesn't matter, okay," Sam interrupted, crowding in. "Cas, listen—you're not gonna believe this but . . . we're in a frikkin parallel universe."

Cas squinted his eyes at them.

Dean nodded. "Yeah, so how's about you ride the signal over here and give us a lift home?"

"He can't," the Doctor butt in. "It's a miracle this signal is strong enough to even reach our universe. Merlin allowed the Tardis to open the rift by a fraction—just enough for Castiel to sense you in the house."

"Wait, you're in the house?" Sam asked.

"Yes, but you're not," Cas said.

"We are," the Doctor assured him. "Just in a different dimension." He pushed passed Dean and beamed at the angel. "Hello, then, Cassie-boy. Long time, eh?"

Dean gaped. "You  _know_  him?" The question was directed at Cas.

"We've met," the Doctor told him. "Although, last time we did, you were blonde."

"So were you," Cas said, and the Doctor let out a chuckle. Dean looked taken aback.

"No! Sorry, business," the Doctor said suddenly, slapping his forehead with the heel of his palm. "We're trapped here—and we need someone to get us out. Someone good at puzzles."

Cas seemed to be on the same wavelength as the Doctor. "Sherlock Holmes," his raspy voice sounded from the speakers, a second out of tune with the movement of his lips.

"Who?" Clara quipped. "The detective?"

"I thought you said Sherlock was dead?" Dean inquired.

"I did," the Doctor said. "I lied." He turned back to the monitor. "Last time I heard from Sherlock, he was in Charlotte, North Carolina. Think you can find him?"

"You said he took a swan dive off a  _building_ ," Dean said, stilled bewildered. "How the Hell did he survive?"

"A magician never reveals his secrets," the Doctor said passively.

Merlin gave a grunt. "You don't have to tell me."

Sam looked over his shoulder to give Merlin an amused grin.

"I'll look everywhere," Cas promised meanwhile. "Give me ten minutes." The screen faded back into static immediately.


	5. Chapter 5

_Chrysler Building, level zero._

The elevator chimed and the doors opened on three men dressed in suits and ties, each of them carrying a black leather briefcase—regular business stiffs. Regular business stiffs who had dark ski masks obstructing their faces and had just taken the service elevator to the basement. They stepped out of the elevator car and paced down the concrete corridor.

"Manning took care of the surveillance footage, yes?" one of the men asked another in a thick Eastern European accent.

The second man pulled out his phone and checked it. His icy blue eyes looked to the first and nodded.

"Good," said the first man, taking off his mask. The other two did not. "Then let us begin."

They came to the building's central heating and the third man stepped forward, carefully undoing the locks on his briefcase. He opened it and all three peered down at the explosive within. It wasn't primed—yet.

The first two men tossed their briefcases to the side, as they had been only decoys—something to help them blend in to their surroundings before they pulled their masks over their faces and met in the back elevator. They lifted the bomb out of its casing, and mounted it onto the heating radiator. The first man stayed put, but the second stepped out of the way, letting the last man through to tap a code into the keys on the explosive. Once he had done so, he took a step back.

"It's ready," he said, this one an American. "Come tomorrow morning, the Chrysler Building will be blown off the map."

The first man looked at him and nodded, his eyes leering.

"Oh, I hardly think so."

It was the second man who said this, his waspy British accent taking the other two by surprise. They spun around to face the man, who was now steadily pointing a revolver in their direction. With his free hand, the man reached up and tore off his ski mask, revealing his dark curly hair and handsome features beneath.

"Who are you?" the first man demanded. "What happened to Romero?"

"I'm afraid Romero found himself on the wrong side of a fifth storey window," Sherlock Holmes told them with a sideways smirk. "No, don't worry. Your man is alive—but I assume the stolen blueprints of the building will merit some interrogation when the EMTs get him to hospital. Now, I really mustn't chat."

He aimed the gun lower and fired it at the first man's kneecap. He fell to the ground in anguish. Then Sherlock pointed the gun fixedly at the man still standing.

"The bomb," he said, his voice a shining example of authority. "Disarm it."

"No way, man. Never," the American told him.

Sherlock gripped the revolver with both hands now and looked the man up and down. "American—Southwestern, judging by your accent, although it has hints of Eastern Europe. That tells me you've spent time there. Perhaps for university—a science or engineering school. That's where you met him," he said about first man. "And where you learned all the art of bomb making—not right out, of course. They never put that lesson in the textbooks, but they might as well, don't you agree?"

The man gaped at him, but Sherlock didn't break stride.

"But the real question is this: Why would an American want to bomb his own country? You're not part of a terror cell—not implicitly, no matter what you'll have him believe." He gestured the gun vaguely towards the man on the floor, who was now cradling his knee.

"It's my dad," the American submitted. "People who worked in buildings like these stole all his money—ruined him. So he went out back one day and swallowed a bullet. Mom lost the house—couldn't cope. You should see her now." The man gulped down his emotion. "They have to take ownership for that.  _They_  ruined my family, so now I'm ruining some of theirs. So, no—I'm not disarming that bomb. You'll have to kill me first."

"Kill a man terrified of dying?" Sherlock said. "You believe in your cause, but you certainly aren't prepared to die for it. If you were, you'd take a simple route—a kamikaze bombing, that way there's a slimmer chance of being discovered before the bomb went off. You were even sure the surveillance cameras were switched off, but you kept your mask on. Kill you? No, I don't think I'll have to." He gestured to the explosive. "Now, the disarming pin. In your own time."

The man stood shell-shocked for a moment.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. " _Please_ ," he forced out, because manners are important, even in a time like this—or at least that's what John would say.

The man jumped at the word, and he immediately spun around and put in the code. Once it was done, he began to turn around again, but Sherlock hit him over the head with the butt of his revolver, and the man fell to the floor unconscious. Sherlock turned his attention to the other man, ready to knock him out, too; but he was already out cold from blood loss, his chest rising and falling shallowly. Sherlock put the gun back into his pocket, and replaced it in his hand with a Smartphone before tapping in three numbers.

"9-1-1, what's your emergency?" spoke a female voice on the line when Sherlock held it to his ear.

"There's been an attempted terrorist attack on the Chrysler Building—basement level," Sherlock told her, keeping it brief. "You'll need a bomb squad." He then peered back down at the two men, nudging one with his shoe. Neither of them woke up. "Oh, and bring an ambulance."

There was a hint of panic in the woman's voice as she said, "Sir, if I could get your name—"

Sherlock killed the call and placed the mobile in his jacket pocket. Without another look in the terrorists' direction, he turned around and started for the basement's emergency exit.

* * *

He took a ferry across the Hudson to New Jersey, where his cheap motel rested on the other side of the highway from the riverbank. Room number twelve had been his makeshift home for nearly three weeks now: it was small, but it was enough for him, and off the beaten path of bustling Manhattan. The last thing he needed was a member of the throngs of people recognizing him, and there was simply less chance of that in suburban New Jersey. He was, after all, meant to be dead.

His Belstaff was flung over the back of the chair at the small coffee table, and he sat directly opposite it, typing away at his laptop and smoking a cigarette. He was on a news website, following the live coverage of the bomb alert. He may not have been able to get all the recognition anymore, but that didn't mean he couldn't admire his handiwork from afar. His cursor hovered over the search bar, and he tried his best to restrain himself from typing in John's blog's URL.

Twice had Sherlock given in to his curiosity and checked the website: once about a month after he left London, to see John had been using the blog to convince others that Sherlock wasn't a fake; and then once some weeks ago, when Sherlock noticed the date stamped on the most recent entry dated back by several months. John Watson had evidently moved on, and it was time for Sherlock to move on from New York. He extinguished the butt of his cigarette in the ashtray.

His reverie was broken suddenly by a soft fluttering sound from behind him, and Sherlock went on high alert as he turned his head around to face the source of the noise. It was a tall man in a tan trench coat standing inches from the bathroom. Sherlock stood up hastily, not taking his eyes off the man.

"Who are you?" he demanded at once. "How did you get in here? This room doesn't connect to the others. There's only one way in or out—I've made sure."

"Are you Sherlock Holmes?" the man asked.

Sherlock squinted at him, studying the man before him. It was strange, but there was something about him—something Sherlock couldn't put his finger on. And that  _never_ happened.

"And you are?" Sherlock asked again.

"My name is Castiel," he said. "I was sent by the Doctor."

There was no point in asking which doctor: Sherlock could practically hear the capital letter. He didn't know whether to relax or to tense up at the mention of the Doctor's name.

"Why?" He decided to tense.

"He needs your help," Castiel told him.

Sherlock snorted a laugh. "And why hasn't he come himself?"

"He can't," was the answer. "They're trapped."

Sherlock raised a brow. "They?"

"Yes," Cas said simply, and Sherlock could see this was a man who had little patience for chat—or perhaps he just didn't know how to chat. "The Doctor told me he needed someone who can work out puzzles. It's the only way to get them free."

"From?"

"A parallel universe."

Sherlock laughed again. "Yes, of course," he said, as though it were the most ridiculous thing in the world. "The Doctor and his travels through space and time. Tell me, you won't be taking me to a . . .  _parallel universe_ , then? Will you?"

Castiel took a few steps closer. "He'll explain more," he said urgently. "Get your coat."

Sherlock shook his head, looking amused. "Not until I have definite proof that you know the Doctor."

Castiel squared his jaw, his eyes boring into Sherlock. "Coat," he said huskily. "Now."

Suddenly, Sherlock felt the weight of his coat on him, and looked down at it with rare shock in his eyes. "How—?"

"I'm an angel," Castiel explained.

Sherlock peered back him as though he were insane. "A  _what_?"

"I need to take you to the Doctor," Castiel said, and Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head once more, adamant on not going anywhere—especially with a madman. However, as soon as he opened his mouth to speak, he felt as though the ground was ripped from underneath him, and his stomach dropped. He felt nauseous for a moment, unsteadied by the sensation of falling and, when he opened his eyes once more, he was staring not at the inside of his motel room, but at a large mansion blocking out the rays of the sun.

Sherlock gaped, only half taking in the wooded area around them. He instinctually noticed the asphalt beneath his shoes, happy to be on solid ground once more, and he looked up and down the cracked road to find the large house was the only building on the block. It was old and worn down, a  _for sale_  sign covered in graffiti and collapsed on the lawn, with weeds and tall grass growing around it.

Castiel was next to him on the tattered sidewalk.

"How did you do that?" Sherlock demanded, circling Castiel once and searching him up and down, taking everything in. He saw nothing. "A device—hidden. Must be," he decided. "You said you know the Doctor. You must have something like his machine, only portable. Where is it?"

Castiel took a step onto the overgrown property of the house, making his way to the front door. "Believe what you want," he said.

Sherlock followed him, still trying to get a read on the man. He overtook Castiel before they reached the porch and stopped him dead in his tracks. "You expect me to believe you're an angel? On what?" He chuckled into the word, " _Faith_?"

"No," Castiel told him. "Definitely not." He pushed passed Sherlock and started up the steps of the porch.

Sherlock shoved his hands into his coat pockets and stared up at Castiel. "A so-called angel with no faith," he called when Cas was halfway up the termite-bitten stairs. Cas turned around to look at him. "So, religion is wrong? Pardon me if I don't seem surprised."

"Not wrong," Cas said. "Just misguided."

Sherlock grinned, catlike. "I'm still not surprised."

Castiel turned back around and finished up the stairs. "Are you coming?"

Sherlock hung back for a beat, his mind racing as he stared into the space Castiel had stood. Then he followed him into the house—unable to resist solving the mystery of this man.

* * *

"Hey, man," Sam said, placing his palm on Merlin's shoulder. "You alright?"

Merlin was sitting on the couch, resting his elbow on the armrest as he rubbed at his temple. When he looked up at Sam, the man was in somewhat of a haze.

Sam pushed a grin onto his face. "You're lookin' as bad as I do right now."

"Fine," Merlin assured him. "Just a headache." It had come on out of nowhere, and it felt as though it was going to split his skull in two, but he tried to get it under control. He didn't have time for pain—not in their current predicament.

However, Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out a small white bottle and undid the top. "Here," he said, shaking two red pills into his palm and offering them to Merlin. Merlin looked at them with curiosity. "You swallow them," Sam said off the look. "It'll help with the pain. I don't go anywhere without a bottle of these things. Well, not anymore."

Merlin smiled weakly at him and relieved him of the medication. After putting them into his mouth, he nodded his thanks to Sam.

"He's back," Clara said from next to the television set, and the others broke what they were doing to regroup around her. As she said, Castiel's visage was fighting through the static, and his black and white image eventually gained dominance.

"Castiel, good," the Doctor greeted him, clapping his palms together. "Welcome back."

"I found him," the angel told them. "I found Sherlock Holmes."

They all watched as he stepped aside, letting Sherlock into the picture. Sherlock appeared to be studying the television set. He looked back at Castiel. "How is there an image?" he asked. "There's no camera."

"Don't worry about that now," the Doctor told him, shooting him a warm smile. "I told you you'd have to keep an open mind."

"Only when it comes to you, Doctor," Sherlock reposed. "I see you're still painting yourself into corners—this time with friends." He pressed his finger against the screen. "Those must be your Winchesters."

"Winchesters, yes. Sam and Dean," the Doctor said, pointing to the rest of them in turn: "Clara, Merlin, Arthur." Sherlock barely even blinked at the last two names.

Sam stepped forward, a large grin on his face, like he couldn't contain his excitement. "Yeah, and, can I just say—it's an honor," he told Sherlock, and Dean looked at his brother curiously. "I knew you couldn't be dead. I mean—come on. All those things the news said about you. Total crap."

"Yes," Sherlock said, somewhat uncomfortably.

"Wait, how do you know about him?" Dean asked Sam.

"Everybody knows about him," Clara said.

Dean blinked, wrong-footed. "I didn't. Not before Sammy here got his ass kicked by a statue, anyway."

Sam shot Dean a look. "Dean, do you  _ever_  read the news?"

Dean gaped.

"Yeah, all the papers said he was a fake genius," Clara offered.

"You mustn't believe everything you read, Clara," said the Doctor.

"I didn't," she said. "Well, I mean, even if he was a fake detective—" She looked back at the screen. "No offense—but even if he made all of it up, it's rubbish calling him a fake  _genius_. You'd  _have_  to be a genius to pull off that kind of con, wouldn't you?"

"Good point," agreed the Doctor.

"I do think we brought him here for a reason," Arthur finally broke in, and the entire group turned again to look at the TV monitor.

"Right, of course!"

"I'm told you're in a parallel world," Sherlock said through the speakers.

"Not parallel, no," replied the Doctor. "I'm beginning to rethink that. More like 'bubble.' Bubble universe—just a step out of our dimension, created just for us."

"By whom?"

"No clue."

"But you have your suspicions."

"Always."

They grinned at each other before the Doctor went on. "And, if my suspicions are correct, we'll need you more than ever." He told Sherlock about the game—what Arthur was told from the woman—and the doors they were to find. "Now, the doors can be opened on your side of the void, but it won't be as simple as turning a lock. It is a game, after all, and I can't think of anyone more suited at winning it than you."

Sherlock nodded, intrigued. "Tell me everything you know."

They got him up to speed, telling him about how they came to be at the house, what they had learned of Margaret Germaine and her family, and of the ghosts from their pasts they had witnessed. Sherlock seemed very flippant about the last bit, but he said with a grin once they had finished with their tale, "A haunted manor in a bubble universe, and a missing family. Shall we begin?"

"Begin?" Dean scoffed. "Where? We barely have anything to go on."

"Yes, well, a small mind never does," Sherlock said, and Dean looked insulted.

He licked his lips and glanced at Sam before cocking his head at the TV. "Sorry,  _what_?" he said, sounding hostile.

"I have everything to go on," Sherlock went on as though he didn't even notice he'd offended Dean. He stood up and held his arms up to the room. "The manor is the clue. It's the same house here as it is for you—presumably exact in every way. All but one way." He stepped closer to the monitor. "We find the difference."

Clara nodded. "Like those kids' picture games," she said.

"Yeah, yeah," Sam agreed, remembering that game from his childhood. "There's the same picture side by side, and you have to find the differences between the two. Like, someone's shirt is a different color, or someone's walking a Doberman instead of a Retriever."

"Exactly," Sherlock said. "We find the difference between the houses, and it will lead us to our next clue."

Arthur stepped forward. "Are you positive there will be a difference?"

Sherlock grinned at him. "It's a game," he said. "I've never lost a game."

The Doctor grinned at Clara. "Told you he was good," he said smugly.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was reaching into his pocket. He pulled out his Smartphone and flashed it before the screen. "We'll need to go portable," he said. "Is it safe to assume one of you from the 21st century can make video calls?"

"Uh, yeah," Sam said, talking out his own phone from his pocket and handing it over to the Doctor.

The Doctor in turn handed it to Merlin. "Same as the telly," he told him. "Make it connect with Sherlock."

For a sliver of a moment, Sam saw something close to apprehension in Merlin's eyes, but it was quickly replaced by determination; he performed the incantation, and they were on their way.

* * *

The downstairs and basement levels proved to be dead ends, and they walked the dark hall of the second floor, keeping in pace with Sherlock. The Doctor held the videophone out in front of him, as did Sherlock, and they both compared the images on the screen with their surroundings, searching for a difference.

Castiel walked behind Sherlock, his eyes wandering around the narrow corridor. They had just exited the room closest to the stairs, the girl's room, and Cas was running his hand over the wall curiously. Something didn't add up.

"The rooms don't connect," he said at once, and Sherlock looked back at him in question.

"How do you mean?"

"The wall-space between the girl's room and the next," Cas went on. He ran his hand down the wood midway between the doors of the rooms. "The room should end here."

"There was a closet," Sherlock told him.

"A small closet," Cas remembered. "This is empty space."

Sherlock didn't seem to spend too much time on it. "Perhaps for the electrical," he said dismissively. "This house is old. The walls are wooden, not plaster. Manors such as these tend to have crawl spaces between the structures for piping."

"Everything alright?" the Doctor's voice cracked through the mobile's speakers.

"Fine," Sherlock told him, and he started down the hallway again.

Cas took another scrutinizing look back the wall before following after him, into another room: the teenage boy's.

* * *

The others followed Sherlock's motion, and they fanned out across the room.

"Same story?" Sam wondered aloud. "Search the place?"

"Up and down," the Doctor said with a nod. "I'll keep manning the camera. You lot, see if you can turn up anything interesting."

Sam didn't know what "anything interesting" meant, but he figured he would if he saw it. He tried to catch Dean's eyes across the room, but he was already rifling through the closet and chatting with Clara.

Sam knelt down and passed the beam of his flashlight around under the bed, seeing a dusty baseball bat, a deflated basketball, and some schoolbooks. Then the light hit a discolored tin box—a toolbox, maybe, but it didn't seem like it belonged in a boy's room. He pulled the box out into the open and sat back on his knees, staring at the padlock that held it closed.

He looked next to him at Merlin and Arthur, who were rummaging through the dresser closest to Sam. "Hey, check it out," he said, catching their attention. The two exchanged glances before pacing over and standing above him.

"What is it?" Arthur asked.

"Dunno," Sam said with a shrug. "It's locked." He looked up at Merlin: "Think you can open it?" He knew Dean had a lock picking set on him at all times, but magic seemed quicker, and Merlin was nodding. The lock snapped open with a word.

Sam placed the lock to the side and opened the lid, and all three of them immediately averted their eyes from the sight or covered their nose with a disgusted groan against the putrid stench.

"Ugh! Why would someone keep that?" Merlin said into his sleeve.

Dean, Clara, and the Doctor rushed over, each of them retracting from the contents of the box as well. Inside were the carcasses of small animals, each at a different stage of decomposition; one was even skeletal.

"Sherlock, under the bed," the Doctor said into the phone, pointing the camera towards what they had seen.

Sherlock bent down beneath the bed on his end and located the same box. "I've got it," he reported to them as he placed the tin on the mattress.

"Allow me," Cas offered. He held his palm over the lock, and there was a moment before it began to glow a hot orange, until eventually it sparked and fell away. Sherlock tore open the top, finding the same contents within and having to breathe into his elbow. He noticed Castiel had no such trouble with the smell.

"It's the same," he told the Doctor after picking up the mobile he'd set next to the box.

"No one's been here for years," said Merlin. "How can the bodies be preserved?"

"It's the metal," the Doctor explained. "It doesn't let anything in—light, air, bacteria. It slows the process of decay; but that's not what I'm wondering."

Dean and Clara pulled faces as the Doctor nudged one of the small bodies with his sonic. "Look," he said. "Whoever put them here killed them. They're cut apart."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "Many of the cuts appear post-mortem."

"So, the kid went Bates Motel on animals?" Dean said, and Sam found in troubling that none of them had to hold their breath anymore. They were getting used to the smell, when it still made his head dizzy.

"The boy?" Arthur said, perplexed. "A  _child_  killed these creatures?"

From the phone in the Doctor's hands, they heard Sherlock say, "It's one of the first signs of sociopathy in children."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, I bet you'd know all about  _that_ ," he muttered, but it was loud enough to be heard. Clearly, he was still harboring a grudge from Sherlock's insult.

"I do," Sherlock said nonchalantly, standing up from the floor and continuing the sweep of the room.

"Can we close that, please?" Clara muttered in the interim, and Sam couldn't agree more. He slammed the top and slid it back under the bed, but the smell lingered.

Meanwhile, he rest of the group drifted away from the box, and the Doctor made sure he followed in Sherlock's footsteps, holding the videophone up once more.

Dean was still on his conversation with Sherlock. "Knew it. Sammy, you owe me five bucks."

Sam shot his brother a look. "Stop it, Dean," he hissed, sounding apologetic.

"Not my fault he probably chopped up the neighbor's dog," Dean reposed.

The Doctor seemed to be holding his breath as his glance ricocheted from Dean to the phone.

"It was a cat, actually," Sherlock told them casually. "I was curious how its vascular system worked. I was a only a boy—too young to know the consequences at the time, especially when it came to science." Mycroft had gone straight to their mother once he'd caught Sherlock in the act. Needless to say, he learned his lesson that day. Moving forward, the only bodies he paid any mind to had already been dead.

Dean didn't seem convinced. "Science," he repeated as he shown his light along the walls of the bedroom. "Right."

Sherlock bristled slightly, and it distracted him long enough for Cas to snatch the phone from his palm and glare into it. "That's enough, Dean," he scolded. "You have to trust Sherlock. He's here to help."

Now Sam was holding his breath, trying to gauge Dean's reaction. He looked pissed.

"Yeah, what would you know about  _help_ , Cas?" he yelled bitterly.

"Enough!" called a loud, authoritative voice from behind Sam. He spun around to find Arthur, who now had everyone's attention. "There is a job that needs to be done and, for that, we must work together. I suggest all of you put any differences you have aside for the time being so we may do that job."

Sam saw Merlin trying to mask a grin.

"Alright," Dean answered, incensed, after a beat. "Fine. Doc, you got anythin'?"

"Nothing I've seen," he responded, sounding relieved that Arthur had shut the others down before the conversation became too heated. "Sherlock?"

"Nothing on this end, no," he agreed, as though nothing had happened. Sam wondered briefly if Sherlock was very good at hiding his hurt, or if he simply didn't care.

"Then I say we move on," Clara said. "Away from the dead furry things."

"Agreed," voiced Sam, and they all started towards the corridor.

It wasn't until they reached the library on the third floor did Sam understand what the Doctor had meant by "interesting."

"Hang on!" Clara shouted for them. "I think I've got something."

She'd been going through the drawer of the reading desk in the center of the room, and she was now holding up an unfolded piece of paper in her hand.

"What does it say?" Merlin asked as the others turned to look at her.

The Doctor rushed over and leaned over her, placing his palms on the desk as he read over Clara's shoulder, mouthing the words as his eyes scanned over them rapidly.

"It's a letter from Margaret Germaine—looks like it's to her husband," Clara told the others. "She says she can't lie anymore. She's leaving him. Hmm—Oh! She's leaving the kids, too. Well, she sounds lovely, doesn't she?"

"Sounds guilty," Sam said.

"Guilty about what?" Arthur wondered, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Sherlock, are you and Castiel getting this?" the Doctor asked into the phone.

"I have the letter here," Cas responded.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was inspecting the grand family portrait hanging on the wall of the library, his hands folded behind his back. It was a high definition photograph, painted over with a thin brush to make it appear like an old fashioned painting. It was framed in the gold with a long-broken display light hanging over it, having once illuminated the family of four.

"At the very least, we now know what her husband looks like," he said.

"What do you mean?" asked the Doctor over the line.

"The portrait," explained Sherlock.

Sam and the others located the family portrait, the same broken light fixture hanging over the three subjects of the painting. Only three.

The Doctor stepped closer to the portrait and held up the phone for Sherlock to see. "You mean this portrait?"

Sherlock glanced down at the phone, then back at his portrait of four. The father was missing on the image on the mobile. A smirk played on his lips. "Gotcha."

Dean crowded behind the Doctor, comparing the two images for himself. "Well, that's great," he said, blinking and throwing his head back in surprise. "But what the Hell do we do with it?"

"Leave it to me," Sherlock said, his coat tails whirling around as he spun away from the portrait to face Cas. "We need to find out everything we can about this man," he said before turning his attention back to the phone in his hand. "I'll phone you once I know where your door is."

"What?" Dean shouted, plucking the phone from the Doctor's hands and peering into it. "No progress reports? No way. Cas, you gotta keep us posted—"

The last thing Dean saw was Sherlock rolling his eyes before the screen went black, cutting him off. "Cas?" Dean tried, even though the call had ended. He dropped his arms to his side when fully realized that he'd been hung up on.

"Sonovabitch."


	6. Chapter 6

After hanging up on Dean, Sherlock kept his mobile in his hands. He opened the Internet application and punched in  _Margaret Germaine_  into the search bar, and he scrolled through the results. After a moment, he held the phone to Cas, revealing a mug shot of the same man in the portrait.

"Ivan Germaine, a former spinal surgeon at the local hospital. Graduated with top marks from NYU," he said to Castiel. "Convicted serial killer. He killed eight women in five years—three, here in D.C. He's admitted killing his wife and two children, but the bodies were never recovered, so he remains a suspect in their disappearances."

"You believe he murdered them?" Cas guessed, remembering the note in his hands. "Because his wife was going to leave him." He handed the letter to Sherlock, who scanned over the message once before flipping the page over to the blank side and inspecting it. He held it to the sunlight for a moment.

Sherlock smirked. "I believe Margaret knew what her husband was and couldn't live with the guilt any longer.  _That's_  why she planned to leave him," he theorized.

Sherlock whipped around to take one last look at the family portrait, and at once he realized the painting had been damaged. A tear was slashed into each of the children's faces—rips that had not been there before.

"When did you do that?" he accused Castiel.

Castiel was staring about the room watchfully, his eyes anywhere but the portrait. "I didn't."

"You must have." Sherlock hadn't done it himself, and there was certainly no one else with them.

The angel overlooked the statement. "We have no time to lose," he reminded Sherlock.

"Of course," Sherlock agreed, pushing the portrait from his mind. "I rather think it's time we speak with Ivan Germaine." He referenced the website on his mobile once more. "He's in the West Virginia State Penitentiary."

* * *

"I don't expect he'll call back any time soon," the Doctor was saying as they walked back down the corridor. "He likes to get all the facts first."

"You mean he likes to show off?" Dean asked dubiously.

"Doesn't matter as long as he gets us out of this," Clara said from beside him.

As he walked next to the Doctor, Sam turned back to Clara and Dean and shot his brother a smirk. "She's got a point," he agreed with her.

"Yeah, whatever," Dean grumbled.

Sam and Clara shared a grin, just before Sam knocked into Merlin, who had suddenly stopped walking in front of him. Sam turned back around, about to apologize, when he noticed Merlin clutching at his forehead.

"Merlin?" Arthur asked, having noticed it, too. It caught the attention of the others.

"Fine," Merlin tried to assure him, but his voice was weak. "I'm well."

Arthur had worry in his eyes. He turned to the Doctor. "You're a doctor," he said. "What's wrong with him?"

"Nothing," Merlin told him. He attempted walking again, as though to prove he was all right, but he stumbled, leaving Sam to catch him.

"Whoa, whoa! Doc?" Sam said, holding Merlin by the arm as Arthur rushed forward to support the other half of Merlin's weight.

The Doctor searched Merlin up and down. "He hasn't eaten anything since we got here," he said. "Arthur, go to the kitchen—find him food. Clara will go with you."

Arthur looked apprehensive, but Clara stepped forward and coaxed him off of Merlin, allowing Sam to help Merlin lean against the wall. He looked over his shoulder every now and again as he walked down the length of the hallway, and the Doctor waited until he and Clara were walking down the stairs to speak once more.

"What are you feeling?" he demanded.

"Not hungry," told Merlin with a weak smile against the wall.

"Of course you're not hungry," the Doctor answered quickly. "I only said that to get rid of Arthur."

"What?" Dean wondered. "Why?"

The Doctor nodded towards Merlin. "No one likes to hear themselves being talked about," he explained. "Well, not in an unflattering way, anyway."

Merlin shook his head. "What are you talking about?" The movement made Sam have to shift his weight to better prop him up. Normally, Sam would have been able to carry the wizard no problem, but the longer he held Merlin, the heavier he got; and Sam wasn't exactly "normal" lately.

"Arthur is a projection," the Doctor told him again. "And where do you think he's projecting from?" He pushed his finger into Merlin's forehead, and Merlin winced at the pain. It caused more soreness than it should have. "He is linked to  _your_  mind, a connection amplified by your magic—but something like this needs a lot more to stay connected. You're giving him your life force. Every second he's alive, he's draining you."

Merlin tried to stand on his own but couldn't. "What does that  _mean_?" he asked, frustrated.

"It means you have to cut the connection," the Doctor told him. "You have to let him go."

Merlin shook his head again. His mouth felt like cotton. "No," he said. "I won't lose him again."

"He's not real, Merlin," the Doctor tried to talk sense.

Merlin pushed Sam away. "He  _is_ ," he said stubbornly, struggling on his own two feet. As he wobbled, Sam held his palms out, ready to catch him again if need be.

"How is he acting?" the Doctor asked, talking a step forward and getting into Merlin's personal space. "You were talking last night—I heard you. Catching him up on the events of Camelot. How did he take it? Like you thought he might?"

Merlin looked at him in perplexity. "Of course."

The Doctor answered with rapid-fire, " _Exactly_  the way you knew he'd react? Why do you think that is?"

Merlin stammered for a moment. "Because," he started. "I know him."

"No, Merlin," the Doctor told him, a hint of sadness in his tone. "You know him,  _so_  he's acting how you think he might. It's feeding on your abilities, your memories—growing, coming to life."

Merlin looked at him in utter disgust. " _It_?"

"And the way he's treating you—refusing you as a servant, it's because that's what you want. That's how you think it will be when he comes back."

"Listen, Doc—just let him rest, alright?" Sam said sympathetically, feeling the need to protect Merlin.

The Doctor put his hand up to silence Sam. "Am I right?"

Merlin didn't meet his eyes. "Yes, that's how I want it to be," he allowed. "I'll admit that I've dreamed it, but that's nothing new."

"Yes, but you know what they say about dreaming men," the Doctor said, crowding in and surveying the wizard. "They're haunted men."

Merlin finally met his glare. "Is that what I am, Doctor?" he challenged. "Haunted?"

The Doctor took a step back after a beat, holding his palms up and grinning vaguely. "Well," he said. "Aren't we all?"

He put his arms back to his sides. "All of this is too perfect," he tried to reason. "Think about it. Arthur's back, he's accepted you for what you are—you're finally equals."

"But that's how it's going to be—" Merlin insisted.

"When he comes back, yes," the Doctor interjected. "But it's too soon. You know that, deep down. Listen to that instinct."

But Merlin couldn't. "If it's using my magic to bring my memories to life, why isn't it doing the same for Sam?" he said, and the Doctor looked puzzled for a moment. He turned to look at Sam, who seemed shell-shocked. Dean was looking at his brother, too, and when Sam met his eyes, there was the tiniest flicker of doubt and mistrust in them. It made Sam's stomach churn.

He turned back to Merlin. "How the Hell d'you know about that?" he asked carefully.

Merlin looked as though he had been taken off guard. "I sensed it," he said. "I'd sensed it the moment I met you."

"And you didn't think to say anythin' about it before?" Dean asked him cagily.

"I couldn't be sure," he replied. "I only felt it sometimes—like it's hidden or . . . buried."

There was a look of guilt etched on Sam's features, and he couldn't meet Dean's eyes. "I don't have those anymore," he insisted, trying to stand taller. "They're gone." He swallowed hard, willing it to be true; but part of him always knew that, in the very core of him, something evil was dormant—no matter how he always pushed those thoughts away when they attempted to claw at his conscience.

Merlin appeared as though he didn't understand why Sam would want his abilities gone, and Sam supposed he didn't. "I know," he said slowly, and Sam's eyes shot back to him. "I can't sense them anymore. I tried to."

Sam was aware of Dean's eyes on him, but his own gaze was directed to the floor. For a moment, he couldn't believe it—he wouldn't  _allow_  himself to believe it. It was too good to be true. But then he smiled, and he let out a breath of laughter. He had told Dean that the trials were purifying him, but to have something at least close to proof of that was the best news he'd gotten in a long time.

He felt Dean's hand clasp his shoulder and give it a squeeze, and Sam felt proud.

* * *

Sherlock's legs were crossed as he sat back casually in his chair, sizing up Germaine, whose hands were bound together and handcuffed to the table between them. Beneath the table, his legs were chained, and there was a guard standing to attention in the corner of the room. Evidentially, this man was not the penitentiary's model prisoner.

"I've told them a million times," Germaine was saying. "I won't tell anyone where the bodies are buried until I get a deal."

"You've been asking for five years. Do you still imagine anyone is willing to bargain?" Sherlock asked with his eyebrow raised. "I'm not here to offer you a deal either, Mr. Germaine. I'm here to ask why—why kill your family, especially your son? You must have realized he had developed your tendencies."

Germaine smirked crookedly. "Marcus was my protégée."

"Then why kill him?"

"It's what I told the others. Margaret wanted a divorce," he said coolly, like it was rehearsed. "I knew that meant she would go to the police, so I stopped her. I knew then that it was over. Margaret had clout. She was a Supreme Court Justice. Someone would come looking for her—and it was only a matter of time until they traced it back to me. Imagine two bright children without a mother and a father in jail—nowhere else to go. They were better off dead than go into some foster care."

"As you did as a child?"

"It didn't matter, anyway," Germaine went on after a breath. "It wasn't Margaret's death that lead the police to my door. It was Susan Bennett's."

"The last woman," Sherlock said. "Tall, pretty—just like Margaret? Yes, I took a look at the files. In fact, all eight of your victims bore a striking resemblance to your wife."

Germaine narrowed his eyes, but said nothing.

Sherlock gave a sideways smirk. "You didn't kill her because she was going to rat you out. You didn't kill her at all. Oh, but you wanted to. Your victims' murders are telltale of that. You wanted to lock your wife away somewhere secluded and starve her to death—watch her waste away—like you did to the others; but you couldn't, so you took your desires out on other women. Margaret knew that, and she was much too afraid to go to the police under your watch."

Germaine's eyes flashed with anger—or was it defensiveness? "I killed her!" he assured. "Me."

"No," said Sherlock, the catlike grin still on his features. "But you know who did. I saw the letter your wife wrote to you—the letter you never saw, but you were told about it, weren't you? That's how you knew she was planning on divorcing you. The back of the letter had indentations on it from an address written on an envelope. She wouldn't have to  _mail_  you the letter if you lived in the same house. That letter was written  _after_  you were caught for the murder of Susan Bennett, when Margaret had enough confidence to go to the police; but someone else found the letter before she got the chance. That's who killed her."

Germaine was shaking his head. "You're wrong."

"You're an intelligent man—far too intelligent to continue chasing a deal for a shorter sentence after half a decade. It's a decoy so you won't have to admit that you don't know were the graves are." Sherlock leaned forward now. "You're covering up for the real killer. Who is it?"

"You're looking at him," he insisted.

"Then prove it," challenged Sherlock. "Tell me where the bodies are hidden."

Germaine stared at him with wide, searching eyes, knowing that he was bested. Sherlock knew that he would never give away the identity of the true murderer, but he considered this a win anyway. He sat back smugly.

"Thank you, Mr. Germaine," he said, looking him in the eyes. "I believe that will be all."

* * *

The door buzzed open and Sherlock stepped through, instantly locating Castiel in the entrance. The angel stood to attention, and Sherlock nodded to him to follow as he stepped out the main door and into the sunlight. He supposed the polite thing to do was to thank Cas for getting him into the prison with his fake—rather good, but fake nonetheless—FBI ID badge, but Cas was already drilling him as they hustled down the steps.

"What did he say?" he asked. "Why did he kill his family?"

"He didn't," Sherlock said briskly as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

Cas stopped short, narrowing his eyes perplexedly at Sherlock. "Then who did?"

"Ah! That's what we're to find out," Sherlock told him. "Whoever it was, the answer lies in the manor. We'll have to get back there, quickly."

"Of course," Cas said with a short nod. He reached two fingers towards Sherlock's forehead, and there was a brief flutter of wings before the falling sensation overcame Sherlock again. When he opened his eyes, they had returned to the main room of the house.

Sherlock straightened his coat by the lapels. "You still haven't clarified how you do that."

"I have," Cas told him. "You chose to ignore it."

"Yes, well, it's faster than a car. I tend not to question a good thing," Sherlock reposed.

Cas looked amused for the first time, as far as Sherlock was concerned. "Yes, you do."

Sherlock grinned at him as the angel turned away. He was beginning to like Castiel.

"What are we looking for?" Cas asked him.

"Anything that suggests another person had been in this house after the police searched it," was the answer. "We'll cover more ground if we split up."

Cas agreed. "Do you have anything iron on you?" he asked, and Sherlock raised a brow at him.

"Why?"

The angel crossed towards the fireplace and withdrew the heavy black poker from the rack. He held it out for Sherlock. "Take it."

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth a few times, truly bemused. "But what is it  _for_?" he asked, noting not for the first time how peculiar this man was.

Castiel nudged it closer to him. "Take it," he said again, and Sherlock apprehensively relieved him of the fire poker. That seemed to make Castiel happy, so he did not press the issue.

"Right," he said, trying to get the conversation back on track. He started for the staircase. "I'll take the upstairs. Search this level and the basement. Call for me if you find anything."

Cas nodded dutifully, and there was another flutter of feathers and the man disappeared before Sherlock's eyes. His only reaction was an infinitesimal cock of his head to the side. At once, he heard Castiel milling about in the basement, and decided he'd better get started on the upstairs.

* * *

He sat where Sam had before, shuffling through the papers in Margaret's desk in her home office. He had already turned the filing cabinet inside out, just as he had done to entire floor now beneath his feet. It had been nearly two hours, and he assumed Castiel wasn't having much luck either. The entire house was clean—far too clean to be the murder location of multiple homicides.

Sherlock closed the last drawer and surveyed the room again before resting his elbows on the desktop. He steepled his fingers thoughtfully before his lips, mentally going over the layout of the house once more.

"Sherlock."

The word was barely a whisper, and he glanced towards the entrance of the room, expecting to see Castiel standing in the doorway; however, no one was there. Sherlock blinked at the emptiness, but did not doubt for a second that he heard his name called.

"Sherlock," came the voice again, louder now, and coming from down the corridor. The voice sounded familiar.

He stood up and crossed to the hallway, cursing himself somewhat for having left the fire poker downstairs as soon as Cas had left him. The voice called again, and he remembered what the Winchesters had told him about the spirits of their loved ones returning them. He hadn't believed them, and he still didn't, because the owner of the voice calling to him was not dead.

His mind was on high alert, and he heard every creak of the floorboards beneath him—every moan of the wind as it whipped around the house.

"John?" he allowed himself to call out—to hope.

"Sherlock!" the voiced called again, sounding relieved but also pained. Physically pained. "I'm—I'm in here. Hurry!"

Sherlock bounded towards the noise, straight for the library at the end of the hall. He came to a halt inside the miniature library, wildly looking around the books and hanging artwork until he saw, silhouetted against the pink and orange light of the setting sun streaming in from the window, John. He was looking thoughtfully out the window at the road below.

Sherlock gaped, for once not knowing whether to trust his senses—his  _eyes_ —or to trust what he knew was impossible. He took a step forward, John's name caught in throat. He watched John turn his head slowly to glance at Sherlock, his brows hooding his eyes in disbelief.

"Sherlock!"

But John's mouth hadn't moved, and the sound had come from behind him. Instinctually, Sherlock turned towards it, finding Castiel standing beneath the doorframe. He quickly turned his head back to the corner of the room, but John had gone, and Sherlock's shoulders fell dejectedly.

"What is it?" Castiel asked from behind him, stepping further into the room. "What did you see?"

"I saw—" Sherlock began, but then decided against it. "I saw nothing."

"Was it her?" Cas pried.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and gave his full attention to Castiel. "Who?"

"Margaret Germaine."

"Margaret Germaine is dead," Sherlock reminded him, and he noticed promptly that Castiel was gripping the forgotten fire poker in his fist.

He walked forward and thrust the side of it into Sherlock chest. "You left this downstairs," he said, and Sherlock had no choice but to take it from him as Cas walked passed him, inspecting the area where John had stood.

Sherlock turned to follow the movement with his eyes. "Why is this so important?" he demanded an answer.

"Iron wards off vengeful spirits," Castiel told him with absolute conviction.

"Spirits? Ghosts?" Sherlock asked with a half-laugh.

Cas faced him again. "Yes."

Sherlock shook his head. "No. I did not see the  _ghost_  of Margaret Germaine. It's nothing. Perhaps an echo of the projections the others are seeing in their so-called bubble universe," he reasoned. "Now, tell me, have you found anything? Anything  _concrete_ , I mean."

Castiel shook his head. "Nothing."

It was as Sherlock expected. "Neither have I," he admitted. "Not a trace of Margaret or her children's murders. I haven't even found evidence of Ivan's victims." He paced towards the damaged portrait, staring at the image of the man.

"Maybe he didn't kill them here," Cas offered.

"Of course he did," Sherlock said. "Margaret wouldn't have felt guilty if it hadn't been happening under her own roof. I doubt she would have even known."

"He trapped the women," said Castiel. "For that, he would need chains—so they couldn't escape."

"No," Sherlock said, placing two fingers on either temple. "Not if he had somewhere secluded. Somewhere small." Then it hit him. He looked up with a gasp of exuberance, and then faced Castiel. "The crawlspace."

* * *

They tore back the rack of hanging clothing in the walk-in closet of the daughter's room.

"There," said Sherlock, pointing to a small trapdoor in the back of the closet. It had a heavy-duty padlock holding it closed. He knelt down and held the lock, wiping the thick layer of dust off of it with his thumb.

"The police would have found this when they searched the house," Sherlock told Castiel. "It would have been a crime scene."

"The lock was placed there after the police left," Cas said, following Sherlock's train of thought.

Sherlock straightened out and stood back. "Open it."

Once the lock had melted away by Castiel's hand, Sherlock hunched down again and held the small knob of the door in his fist. He glanced up at the angel, who gave him a curt nod, and Sherlock prepared himself for what lay behind the door. He tore it open.

Now on all fours, he peeked his head and shoulders into the crawlspace, holding up a torch in one hand. The space wasn't large enough to stand in, but it could easily fit two sitting adults. The second thing he noticed was the scratch marks in the wood, caused by Ivan's victims—and perhaps one more. When he turned his head to the far corner of the space, he saw her: nothing but decrepit bones and fragile hair.

He sat back onto his knees and peered up at his partner, who was waiting for a verdict. He nodded towards the door, gesturing for Cas to see for himself, which he did.

"Castiel," Sherlock told him once his head was through the door. "Meet Margaret Germaine."


	7. Chapter 7

Night had fallen, and they still hadn't heard anything from Sherlock and Castiel. Clara and Dean were going through the pantry again, searching for anything they might be able to cook. If they did manage to find something, Clara very much hoped it wasn't beans again. In fact, she was praying for a chicken dinner to fall from the sky, but she assumed that wouldn't happen any time soon.

"Looks like we're fresh out of . . . everything," Dean said, shining his flashlight into a cabinet.

"Shall I run to the shop, dear?" Clara said, a teasing smirk on her face as she feigned a high-class accent. "I could pick up some chops."

"Mmm, my favorite," Dean played along with a handsome grin which Clara tried her best to look unimpressed by.

She leaned against the counter and folded her arms across her chest as Dean stood next to her, mirroring her position. "Never mind food," she told him, suddenly serious. "I just hope we don't have a repeat of last night." The image of her mother flashed before her eyes, and Clara felt her heart sink. She wanted to see her mother again, of course, but not like this. It wasn't natural.

She cleared her throat and looked to her boots, letting her hair fall before her face to block Dean from seeing her expression. "The Doctor wouldn't like that one bit," she said in ways of an excuse, shifting around a bit.

"Oh yeah?" Dean wondered. "Why's that?"

"He doesn't like to repeat himself," Clara clarified, looking back up at him.

Dean pulled a face. "What, and I do?"

Clara tilted her head to the side. "Sorry, what?"

"I do," Dean said, more forcefully.

"You  _what_?"

" _I_ —" He stopped, realizing.

A cheeky smile spread across Clara's face, and Dean rolled his eyes in annoyance.

"Cute," he said, but he didn't sound amused. "That's real cute. Now can we get down to business, please?" He turned away again to search through the cupboards.

"There's nothing here," Clara told him, unmoving. "We're right starved."

"Yeah," Dean agreed, pursing his lips and shining his light around the kitchen one last time. "Better go break the news to the others."

Clara nodded, not looking forward to it either. Nonetheless, she pushed herself off the counter and hooked her arm into Dean's. "I say we go out for dinner, anyway," she told him, faking the same accent as before. He rolled his eyes again, but there were laugh lines on his face, and they began to walk.

However, as they walked down the hallway towards the main room, Clara saw a dark form out of the corner of her eye as they passed an opened door. She gasped, and flung her head towards the image, but saw nothing.

"Dean," she hissed, alerting him to what she'd seen. She let go of him and paced slowly into the side room.

"What?" he asked, following her inside and gripping his torch in his fist and he shined it about. "Did you see your mom again?"

"No," she said surely. "It was a man. I know it was."

She turned to face Dean and, standing in the doorway behind him, she found a pale bearded man with a trucker hat on his head.

"Dean, look!" she yelled, and he spun around halfway.

As the light hit the spirit, Dean's eyes became soft. "Bobby," he said under his breath.

"Bobby?" Clara asked. "The Bobby you saw last night?"

Dean turned towards Bobby fully now, not keeping his eyes off of him. "You still see him, too?"

Clara nodded fervently before realizing Dean wasn't looking at her. "Yeah."

Suddenly, Bobby appeared to vibrate, and his image disappeared. Clara could practically hear Dean gulp passed the lump in his throat.

"Dean!" Sam's voice echoed down the hall, sounding panicked, and the older Winchester was out of the room as quick as lightening. Clara raced after him and, when they reached the others in the main room, she saw a tall blonde man in the center of the room, staring fixedly at Sam.

"Lucifer," Dean whispered, naming him, and there was only a single tremble of fear in the first syllable. But his voice was mostly dripping with hate. In the same manner as Bobby, Lucifer disappeared.

Dean ran to his brother, making sure Sam was okay.

"We couldn't see each other's specters last night," Merlin said, aiming the question at the Doctor. "Why can we now?"

The Doctor's eyes were wide as he thought, staring around the room in search of another apparition. "They're getting stronger," he reasoned. "Something's happened."

"What?" Arthur demanded. " _What's_  happened?"

"I don't know," the Doctor admitted. "Something on Sherlock's end. He must be getting close. I—" His eyes met Clara's, and they instantly became wider. He took a few steps closer and reached out for her. "Clara!"

She spun around, and standing just a foot before her was a sandy-haired man with a rather large nose. Clara had never met Rory, and perhaps she would have liked him if he weren't looming over her. She shrieked instinctually and jumped backwards, her back hitting against the stone fireplace. The ghost paced towards her.

"No,  _please_!" the Doctor shouted at Rory, clearly torn on what to do.

Sam, however, wasn't. "Clara, the pan!" he shouted.

Clara shielded her head with her arms, her heart pounding. "The  _what_?"

"Next to fireplace. Use it!"

When she looked down and saw the cooking pan she had tried to use against Dean when they first met, she got the message. She swooped down and grabbed the handle, and then swung the pan through Rory's chest. It appeared to rip through him, and he disappeared.

She stood up straight, willing herself to calm down, and blew a strand of hair away from her face.

"Iron," Sam explained with a shrug. "The pan's made of iron."

Clara let out the breath she had been holding. She smiled at the pan in her hands. "I knew you wouldn't let me down in the end," she told it.

The Doctor paced to Clara and unexpectedly wrapped her in his arms, tightly enough to cause her to drop the pan to the floor again, but she could hardly hear it clatter with her ear pressed to his chest, listening to his heartbeats. They were faster than usual, and Clara could feel him trembling slightly around her. He broke the hug after a long moment and placed his palms on her shoulders, eyeing down at her with concern. She smiled brightly at him, silently telling him that she was all right, and it made the corners of his lips twitch upwards warmly.

She wanted to ask whom that man was to the Doctor, but before she got the chance there was a groan of pain emitting from the other end of the room. Both the Doctor and Clara fixed their eyes on Merlin, who was doubled over and rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms, attempting to shake the pain from his head.

"Merlin! Merlin, what is it?" Arthur said in a panic, holding his hands out around Merlin incase he needed support, as the Winchesters rushed to their side.

The Doctor bounded over, too, and Clara swooped down to pick up her trusty pan before following in suit.

"I can feel them in my head," Merlin struggled to say, as another spirit appeared before them—this one a pretty young, blonde woman in a Smurfs t-shirt. Clara was ready this time. She swung her makeshift weapon like a baseball bat, and the woman was gone.

"She's angry," Merlin told them, still clutching the sides of his head.

Clara looked at the Doctor in wonder. " _She_?"

* * *

Sherlock and Castiel stood on either side of the bed, staring down at the skeletal remains of Margaret Germaine, which they had laid out on the mattress to better inspect.

"She didn't die in walls," Sherlock told him. He had already prodded the bones, which was difficult without the proper supplies, but nowhere near impossible. The remains were telling him a story, and all the loose ends were coming together. "The body was moved."

Castiel nodded in agreement. "Likely after police left the house."

"More than likely," Sherlock said. He knelt down next to the bed and produced a small magnifying glass from his coat pocket; and he held it up to the ribcage. "We can, without a shadow of a doubt, rule out her husband as the murderer. See here—" Castiel leaned over and squinted his eyes at the ribs. "These markings on the ribcage," Sherlock explained, ghosting his fingers over them. "They were caused by a blade—a kitchen knife, from the look of it."

"And Ivan Germaine starved his victims," Cas said.

"That's right. He never touched them. But we've seen someone who did," Sherlock reminded him, replacing the magnifying glass.

"You think the son killed his mother?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, standing up again. "Ivan cared far too much for his children to kill them. He called the boy his protégée. He was proud of him. The boy probably helped his father trap the women. Even his made up story of his children's murders was made to sound like a mercy killing. He could never actually do it."

He regarded the bones again. "But this knife work—it isn't careful or calculated. The ridges are far too uneven. The lacerations were quick—passionate." He fisted his hand and mimicked stabbing the remains. "Vengeful."

"Afraid," Castiel offered, and Sherlock looked up at him in something close to shock. He hadn't thought of that word.

"Yes," he said. "He found the note in the library. He was angry that his mother would abandon her husband, and afraid she may tell them of her son'a involvement. This was self-preservation. He then concealed the body long enough for the police to clear away, and he hid it here—one last tribute to his father."

"The daughter?" Castiel asked. "Where is she buried?"

"She isn't," Sherlock said. "Dead weight is very hard to carry, especially if you're an adolescent. He would need help—the help of the only person he could trust." He crossed to the closet and ran his hand down the frame of the door. "The one person who heard the screams the loudest, night after night, but never came to the aid. She would see herself guilty, as well: a young girl with nowhere else to turn but to her brother. They left the body and ran."

"They were only children," Castiel told him.

"All serial killers have an escape plan," Sherlock informed him, turning back to the body. "Do you imagine Ivan wouldn't share his with his pride and joy?"

Castiel nodded in understanding. "That's why he wouldn't tell you who the real killer is. So his children could be free."

"Yes," Sherlock said, grinning. "But not anymore."

* * *

They manned themselves with anything iron they could find. Clara kept her pan, Dean took the shovel from the fireplace while Sam had the ash broom clutched in his fists, and Arthur wielded the poker like a sword. Merlin hoped his magic would keep the visions at bay, and the Doctor was certain he could scatter the images with the sonic screwdriver. Meanwhile, the spirits were becoming more frequent, at times coming in twos or threes. They were friends and family, people they'd killed and people they couldn't save. In Sam and Dean's case, they were people they had saved—once, before Crowley came along.

Sam turned to his left and saw Sarah coming towards him, blinking in and out of existence as she closed in. Her death was still too fresh, and Sam felt his heart drop at the thought of her young family. Sarah had been real. He had kissed her and shared dinner with her and met her father. They could have been something, together. Out of all the people Sam had saved over the years, Sarah had been the  _most_  real. And now she was reaching her hand out, ready to thrust it into Sam's gut and rip him apart from the inside, as though he wasn't torn up already.

He let his training take over and swung his weapon, causing Sarah to disappear—only to reappear on the other side of him a moment later. Sam jumped at the sight.

"Dean!" he called, backing away and swinging again.

"Kinda busy at the moment, Sam!" Dean called back as he took out his own ghost, a mustached man in British military attire. He only flickered at Dean's expenses, and Sam wished they had rock salt at their disposal.

More and more filled the room, each of them harder to kill than the rest.

"Doc!" Sam called as the Doctor raised his sonic at one of the ghosts, causing her to explode into a million raining pieces. He rushed in front of the Doctor, shielding him from another attack. "Call Sherlock," he told him, glancing over his shoulder and holding the iron broom at the ready. "Now!"

* * *

A buzzing sound came from Sherlock's pocket, and Cas recognized it as the ringing of a phone. Sherlock was bent down over the bones, ignoring the vibrations.

"Could you get that?" he asked Castiel.

Cas blinked at him. "It's—it's in your pocket," he told him, but Sherlock didn't answer. After a moment of hesitation, he crossed to the other side of the bed and took the phone from Sherlock's pocket. It was a video call from Sam's cell.

He narrowed his eyes at the glowing screen before following its directions and swiping his finger to answer the call. "Um. Hello?" he said unsurely as the Doctor's face appeared onscreen. There was chaos behind him, and the racket made it hard to hear what he was saying.

"Castiel! Good," the Doctor said happily, pointing his index finger at Cas with a smile. "Wondering about your progress," he continued on casually.

"It's—" Cas looked back down at the bones. " _Progressing_."

"Ask him what pissed off the ghost!" Dean shouted from somewhere off camera, and the Doctor looked up and to his left.

"I'm getting to that," he shouted back before looking back to Castiel. "Dean and Sam seem to think there's an angry spirit on the loose. Hard to disagree." He turned the camera towards the fight: dozens of spirits now.

Sherlock stood up and looked at the phone from over Castiel's shoulder. "Doctor, we've found Margaret Germaine's bones."

"You what?" they heard Sam say, and the video became unsteady as Sam took his cell from Doctor and spoke into it. "Burn them!"

"Burn them?" Sherlock repeated, furrowing his eyebrows at the phone. "Her killers are still out there. These bones could be used as evidence against them."

"Sam is right," Cas said, walking to the end of the bed and staring intently at the bones.

Sherlock followed him with his eyes. "How else can we convince anyone of the children's guilt?"

"That doesn't matter," Cas told him, his mind made up. "We've disturbed to remains. The spirit is lashing out. If we burn these bones, it will stop the attack on Dean and Sam." He held his palm over the bones.

"You're sure about that?" Sherlock asked warily.

Cas took a deep breath in. "No."

The bones combusted into flames.

* * *

Merlin's eyes faded back to blue as he watched the latest attacker fly to opposite end of the room. Besides him, Arthur jabbed the poker into another's gut, causing it to flicker away.

"More are coming," he told Merlin, and Merlin prepared himself as he spun around to meet another. However, the image that flashed into existence before him halted him.

"No," he said under his breath, watching the man before him advance, his red cape billowing out behind him with every step. "Gwaine."

Arthur turned around at the name, his eyes wide as he watched his knight unsheathe his sword. "Gwaine is dead?" he asked Merlin, a mixture of sorrow and anger in his eyes. Merlin swallowed his sadness as he nodded.

Arthur's eyes flashed back to their friend, not sure what to do. "Gwaine, you have to stop this," he said, trying to appeal to the spirit, but he held his poker out in defense. "You were a brave man and a fine knight. You must remember that."

Gwaine swung his sword towards Merlin, and Arthur instinctively pushed Merlin out of the way. He held up the poker like a sword and blocked the blow, only for another to come. Merlin watched them duel, ready to jump in with magic in Arthur's defense, when suddenly Gwaine knocked the poker from Arthur's grip. He held the tip of his blade to Arthur's neck, causing the King to stumble backward to the ground.

Gwaine drew back his sword for the final blow, and Merlin raised his palm; but before he uttered an incantation, orange and black flames rose around Gwaine. They appeared to be burning him from the inside out, licking upwards until they eventually consumed him whole. Merlin's eyes flashed around the room, seeing the same happening to the other spirits until there was no trace of them and all fell quiet.

From beneath him, Arthur looked up at Merlin expectantly. "Did  _you_  do that?"

Merlin shook his head, and then reached down and helped Arthur to his feet. He glanced him over, half expecting Arthur to burst into flames at any moment. "You're still here?" he dared say.

Arthur looked down at himself as though he had just noticed it for the first time. "Oh," he said. "So I am."

Merlin chuckled, his body unable to contain his joy. Because, to Merlin, this proved that Arthur was real. The Doctor was wrong: he wasn't like the others.

His laughter was cut short by a loud banging sound as the main door slammed open, allowing a white-hot light to flood through. A fierce wind whipped around them, and Merlin planted his feet to the ground and clutched on to Arthur as to not let it suck him towards the light.

"What is it?" Clara shouted over the wind.

"It's the portal! Sherlock's opened it!" the Doctor called back, his hair flapping wildly across his forehead.

"Yeah, but portal to what?" came Dean's voice. "Home or level two?"

"Only one way to find out!" the Doctor told them, and they each exchanged a nod of solidarity before crossing to the door.

* * *

They stood on the curb and watched the smoke rise from the crumbling manor, and sirens sounded in the distance, getting louder by the moment.

"I can't sense Dean and Sam anymore," Cas said, breaking the silence. "They've moved on."

"So should we before the fire department shows up," Sherlock told him.

"Yes," Cas agreed. He turned his head to look at Sherlock. "Margaret Germaine was the door."

"It appears she was," said Sherlock, shoving his hands into his pockets. "But I wonder to where."


	8. Chapter 8

Merlin lost his footing as he stumbled through the doorway and right into Arthur's back, causing the King to lurch forward and fumble to support both their weight.

" _Mer_ lin!"

"Sorry!" Merlin said reflexively as he stood up straight and helped Arthur brush himself off. "Sorry, sire."

"I see your clumsiness hasn't changed," Arthur told him, and Merlin shot him one last apologetic look before glancing around at their new surroundings. They seemed to have landed in a back alley somewhere, and Merlin noted the grime on the brick walls and stale smell coming from the trash bins. He peered over his shoulder at the locked metal door they had appeared to come through.

"Where are we?" he heard Sam ask as he and the others tried to get their bearings, too.

"No idea," said the Doctor as he led them out of the alley and towards the bright sunlight.

The world outside the narrow alley was like nothing Merlin had ever seen before. It was a metropolis of metal and glass, reaching high towards the sky, in every direction he looked. It made Camelot look like a village. Cars and bicyclists zipped by on the streets and pedestrians carrying shopping bags or chatting on cell phones bustled to and fro, some weaving their way hurriedly around Merlin with impatient huffs. There was a slight tremor beneath his feet, and Merlin noticed steam rising through the cracks in the lid of a nearby manhole.

"What city is  _this_?" Dean wondered aloud.

"Not European," said Clara. "It looks nothing like one of our cities."

"Well, parallel world—we can never be sure," the Doctor reminded her. "But she's got a point. It definitely  _looks_  American."

"I dunno, Doc," Dean said. "I've been through every city in the US, and this one's new to me."

Sam had wandered towards a brightly colored plastic newsagent and pulled out the local paper. He blinked at it a few times before bringing it back over to the group and saying, "Dean, check it out." He flipped the paper around so the others could read it. In big, scripted letters at the top, it read: the  _Lawrence Tribune_.

"Lawrence?" Dean gaped, snatching the paper from his brother and staring down at it.

"What's Lawrence?" inquired Arthur.

"It's a town in Kansas," said Sam, but that didn't help Arthur understand any better.

"And what's so shocking about a town in Kansas?" asked Clara.

"It's home," Dean answered, lowering the paper to his side. "Me and Sam's home. It's where we were born."

"Yeah, and it's  _not_  a big city," Sam told them. " _Definitely_  not this."

"It is now," said the Doctor. "I'm worried what  _else_  is different. We should look over that newspaper." He searched up and down the street quickly. "Where's a quiet place, do you reckon?"

Dean looked across the street, nodding towards a bright neon sign that read  _Diner_.

"Good to see some things don't change," he muttered.

* * *

The waitress slid a large salad in front of Sam before moving on to give Merlin his dish. He had ordered the same thing as Sam, probably out of confusion over what half the things on the menu were. Off Dean's recommendation, Arthur had ordered a cheeseburger, and Sam notice the waitress give him a tight, nervous smile as she arranged the plate before him; and she didn't give Dean's plate as much care when he was served. Clara had ordered a sandwich and was currently sitting at one end of the table taking idle bites of a fry as she eyed the Doctor across from her. A steaming mug of tea had been placed before him, but he hadn't touched it, as he had disappeared behind the unfolded newspaper and hadn't said a word for nearly fifteen minutes.

"Dude, you're gonna love this," Dean said with a grin, nudging Arthur with his elbow and diving in to his food. Sam rolled his eyes as Dean let out a happy humming sound after the first bite of his burger. "Thank god. Some normalcy," he said with his mouth full.

Arthur raised a brow at him before collecting his own burger in his gloved hands and taking a bite. Sam moved his salad around with his fork intently, but Dean and Merlin were looking at Arthur as though they were waiting for his verdict.

"Actually, that's not bad," Arthur told them after he swallowed. "It's quite good, really. What did you say the meat was, again?"

"Beef," Dean answered, and Arthur repeated the word thoughtfully.

They both simultaneously took another bite of their sandwiches as Sam occupied himself with his meal. He didn't have much of an appetite lately, but he figured he'd keep up appearances for Dean. When he looked up again, Dean and Arthur were eyeing both he and Merlin's food choice as they chewed. Their glares were somewhat judgmental and, Sam didn't know why, but it made him feel slightly self-conscious. Merlin, however, didn't seem to notice. He was shoveling food into his mouth as though he'd never eaten before in his life, and Sam didn't think it was because of the quality of the food. After all, the salad wasn't even that good.

"Why is everyone staring at us?" Clara wondered, and everyone but the Doctor looked up from their food and gazed around the restaurant. As they turned their heads, people who had blatantly been watching them looked away immediately.

Sam furrowed his brow at this. "I dunno."

"Probably 'cos  _they_  look like total LARPers," Dean said airily, glancing at Merlin and Arthur's attire.

Clara scrunched her nose. "They're what?"

The Doctor slammed the paper down on the linoleum, making the bottles of condiments and utensils leap. Everyone at the table sat back in shock, all eyes now on the Doctor as he tore his round reading glasses from his face.

"The Pathway is closed down for renovation," he announced, and was met with only silence and blank stares.

"Okay," Dean said slowly after a moment, tossing the last scraps of his burger back onto his plate.

"What's the Pathway?" Merlin asked, suddenly breaking his silence with a full mouth.

"It's the underground railway," the Doctor said, folding an arm across his torso and propping his other arm on it by the elbow. He waved his hand around gingerly as he spoke. "It's just a transportation system built in tunnels under the city, but it's closed down for a few days."

"So?" Sam asked with a shrug.

The Doctor shot him a look. "An  _entire_  railway, closed down," he said more forcefully. "Usually, they fix it bit by bit. That way, commuters won't be disrupted and, more importantly, no one loses any money. But they've just closed down the entire system. Why?"

"Who cares?" Dean articulated, and the Doctor rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as though he were getting a headache.

When the time came for them to pay, Sam prayed American money was still good, but he doubted it. Dean walked up to the register confidentially nonetheless and handed the girl behind the counter the bill and a credit card, but she refused to take it.

"Oh, no," the hostess said with a small laugh. "That's very kind, sir, but I can't. It's the law."

"What law?" Dean asked.

The manager, a mustached man in a cheap tie, walked up to them on the opposite side of the counter. "Time Lords and their friends eat for free, of course," he said happily.

The Doctor pushed towards the front. "What did you just say?"

"Time Lords!" the manager repeated, walking around the counter and heading straight towards Arthur. He shook his hand vigorously. "I'd spot you miles away! You Time Lord soldiers and your funny uniforms." Arthur knitted his brows together, and the manager suddenly turned a bright red and began to stammer. "Not  _funny_ , of course! No. I didn't mean to say funny. I meant . . . Uh . . . Well, whatever helps win the War."

"The War?" Arthur repeated, but the man didn't notice.

"It's an  _honor_  having you in our restaurant, sir," he said, grasping Arthur's hand again and turning towards the counter with a jovial grin on his face. Arthur gaped as he followed the man's eyes, and he was startled when a flash erupted from the camera in the hostess's hands.

"We won't waste any more of your time," the manager said, giving Arthur one last pat on the back as Arthur blinked away the stars in his eyes. "Keep up the good fight!"

The group walked back onto the sidewalk with confused expressions.

"What's a Time Lord?" Arthur asked them.

"He is," Sam told him, gesturing to the Doctor. "I thought you were the last one?"

"I am," the Doctor said thoughtfully.

"Then how can they be here?" Clara asked him.

"I keep telling you: parallel world," the Doctor said. "We've never existed here.  _I've_  never existed. That means the Time Lords lived . . ."

"What does that have to do with you?" Merlin asked, looking at the Doctor as though it were for the first time.

"Good point," said Sam, and he and the two other men eyed the Doctor suspiciously, too. The Doctor couldn't meet their eyes.

"That doesn't matter," Clara told them, putting herself between them and the Doctor and raising her palms as though they were barriers. Her hair flipped as she whipped her head around to look at the Doctor. "Why are they on Earth?"

"Beats me," the Doctor admitted.

"Well, what war are they fighting?" she tried, and the Doctor suddenly became fascinated by his shoes. "Doctor?"

"Okay," Sam interrupted. "Whatever's going on, we can't afford anyone else bringing too much attention to us. So, first thing's first." He looked at Merlin and Arthur. "You guys are gonna have to find different clothes."

Merlin and Arthur looked down at themselves and then around at the others, as though they noticed for the first time that they stuck out like a couple of sore thumbs.

"I agree," Arthur told them. "But surely that will take a few days. We don't even know where to find a seamstress."

Dean opened his mouth to say something, but Clara quickly diffused him by stepping forward. "No, no, we can take you to a shop," she said sweetly. "They have clothes already made."

Merlin and Arthur nodded a bit unsurely.

"Great," said Dean. "Let's get this over with."

"Oh, no!" Clara said suddenly, wheeling around to face him. "You and Sam aren't  _touching_  them."

"Why not?"

Clara snorted a laugh and folded her arms across her chest, eyeing their plaid shirts fixedly. "You might be fine looking like wannabe cowboy farmers, but I think a legendary King and Warlock deserve something a bit better." She pointed a finger upwards to hush the Doctor before he could speak. "Don't you dare suggest bowties."

The Doctor deflated slightly and fixed his purple bowtie with two hands, a dismal look on his face.

Clara beamed. "Leave it to me."

"Fine," Dean conceded. "Whatever. Can we just do this already?"

As they all began to walk down the street in search of a clothes store, Sam glanced around and noted how different this city was from modern-day Lawrence. He felt like he was on another planet where everything was the same, only slightly off. Even the cars that drove by looked different than what he was used to. It made him feel very disconcerted, like he was just a step out of sync with the rest of the world.

When he brought his eyes to the opposite side of the street, he saw two women walk casually out of a storefront. One was middle aged but still gorgeous, her long blonde curls only slightly graying as she tossed them over her shoulder and readjusted the strap of her purse. She was talking to a teenage girl, who was very tall with a slender frame and sweeping brown hair around her angular face. The sight of them made Sam stop in his tracks.

"Dean," he managed to say passed the lump in his throat, not taking his eyes off the first woman for a second as she grasped at Dean's jacket.

" _Wha-ut_?" Dean said in an agitated voice as he shook Sam's hand off of him and straightened out his jacket.

The others continued walking, not having realized the Winchesters were no longer with them, but Sam didn't care. He nodded towards the women. "Look."

Dean did, and he immediately squared his shoulders, speechless.

"It's Mom," Sam breathed.

Across the way, Mary smiled down at the teenager next to her as they walked. She wrapped an arm around the girl's shoulder and forced her in closer to plant a kiss on her temple. When the girl was released, a look of disgust and mortification played on her face as she wiped the kiss from her skin.

Dean saw the exchanged, too. "Yeah, but who the Hell is  _that_?"

* * *

Sherlock shook the vertigo from his head until his mind was once again clear of the falling sensation. Castiel had transported him nearly half a dozen times now, but it was something Sherlock could not prepare his body for no matter how he tried. Again, he sneaked a peak at Castiel, trying to locate a device that could be used as a transporter, but noticed nothing. No hidden movements; no shoving a concealed device into his pocket. Sherlock could not accept what he knew in the back of his mind to be true: Castiel was somehow doing this by his own accord.

He took his eyes off the man next to him, eager to solve a mystery he could make sense of. He found them standing on the sidewalk of a town center, and their coats billowed about their legs and the breeze whipped around the two storey buildings and shopping centers.

"This is an American town," Sherlock deduced, feeling out his surroundings. "Western, by the looks of it. Where are?"

"Lawrence, Kansas," Cas told him.

"I suppose this town is somehow significant to the Winchesters?" They were, after all, the only Americans.

Cas nodded. "Yes," he said. "I can sense them here."

"Well, evidentially, they aren't here," Sherlock said. "That must mean there's another door here somewhere—another case."

Cas wandered to a nearby streetlight with a paper taped to the metal pole. He ripped the sign down and inspected it before showing it to Sherlock. It was a picture of a young man, perhaps in his early twenties, with details of his appearance and his last known location.

"Another missing persons report," Sherlock said.

"Do you think there's a connection?"

"Perhaps," he looked away from the page and down the street, where more papers were taped in intervals. "Whomever's holding the Doctor in this parallel universe, this could be their MO."

"That means there would be more people taken." Cas regarded the paper again, reading the name of the boy. "Not just Andy Matheson?"

"Yes . . ." Sherlock agreed, turning around to look up the street now. He clocked a thin girl carrying a stack of papers. She was stopped in front of a storefront, posting another sign to the window. Sherlock nodded in her direction for Castiel to see. "Shall we find out?"

They walked towards the small brunette, who was now busying herself signing another lamppost. She looked up at them with determined but bloodshot eyes as they neared.

"Pardon us?" Sherlock asked her disarmingly. "Might we have a word? It's about the man in these posters."

She looked at them up and down warily. "Who wants know?"

Sherlock gave her his best fake grin. "We're with the FBI," he said, turning his head to Castiel, who kept his eyes front and remained quite unmoving. The girl watched him expectantly, too, and there was a beat before Castiel got the message.

"Of course," he said, clearing his throat awkwardly when he reached into his trench coat and produced his fake ID badge. Sherlock tried his best not to roll his eyes. Castiel looked very unofficial, but the girl seemed to relax, so Sherlock folded his hands behind his back and looked at her happily as Cas replaced the ID.

"What d'you want to know?" she asked.

"The sign says you last saw your brother at home, is that correct?" Sherlock wondered. "He wasn't planning to go anywhere or meet anyone?"

The girl looked down at the stack of papers in her hands. "Yeah, he was going out," she said. "He wanted me to go with him, but I said no." Suddenly, she shook her head, Sherlock's words finally sinking in. "Wait, how did you know he's my brother?"

"Where was he going?" Sherlock asked, overlooking the tedious question.

The girl shrugged. "I dunno," she said. "Some party out on a farm a few miles out of town."

"What farm?"

"I have no idea," she said guiltily. "I didn't even ask . . ."

Sherlock eyed the poster behind her, reading the date Andy went missing. "And this was two days ago? Have the police filed a missing persons report?"

The girl snorted a laugh. "Yeah, but I don't think that'll do anything. They haven't found the others yet, right? Is that why you guys are here?"

"Others?" Cas asked, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head in wonder.

"Others, yes," Sherlock said before the girl could catch on. "We're here looking into the other cases, of course."

Cas understood now, and he nodded in agreement. "We will find your brother," he assured her, sympathy in his large blue eyes.

"I hope so," the girl said, placing her hands on top of her stack. "But I gotta keep putting these up in the meantime. I can't just sit around doing nothing."

Sherlock nodded. "I expect you can't," he said, feigning empathy, and he stepped aside to let her pass. They watched after her until she was out of earshot. "It appears our hunch was right," he told Cas. "There  _are_  others. This can't be a coincidence."

Cas looked at him. "Where do we start looking?"

"We start with the local papers and news reports," said Sherlock. "They'll have more details of the missing persons. Perhaps we can find a connection between the victims."

"And if there isn't one?"

"There will be," Sherlock guaranteed him as he started down the street. "In a town in size, people don't go missing every day—especially so close to one another. There's always a connection."

* * *

Sam and Dean kept their eyes fixed on Mary and the teenager, who seemed to be parting ways and, after a brief conversation, Mary waved her off and the girl swiveled her head both ways before stepping into the parting traffic. She took out her cell phone and started texting away as she walked, unaware of the SUV that was barreling down the street.

Sam's heart was in his throat as he watched Mary glance over towards the girl and realize the danger. "Hannah!" he heard her shout as she dropped her bags and ran towards the street, but was halted by traffic. The driver of the SUV pressed the horn down and slammed on the breaks, but continued to skid towards the girl.

Before Sam realized what he was doing, he found himself sprinting towards her, and he tackled her away just as the SUV came to a stop. They landed in a mess of limbs in the middle of the road, and the cars in the other lane honked and swerved passed them.

"What the Hell!" the girl yelled, jumping to her feet and brushing herself off. "You almost got me killed!"

"What?" Sam clamored to his feet, too. "I  _saved_  you!"

"Not you!" Hannah told him. She was looking at the driver of the SUV, who hadn't gotten out of his car but instead rolled his tinted window down.

"Well, maybe you should watch where you're going," he said nastily.

"Maybe  _you_  should learn how to drive, asshat!"

The man rolled his eyes and drove off, and the cars behind him stopped beeping at him for holding up traffic.

When Sam turned around again, Mary was at his side, holding Hannah by the shoulders and inspecting her for any physical wounds. "Are you okay, honey?" she was saying in a concerned tone, and Sam immediately realized that this girl was Mary's daughter.

He was shell-shocked when Mary turned to him and wrapped her arms around him tightly. "Thank you  _so much_!" she breathed into him, and Sam wondered if he was shaking. After the shock wore off, he closed his eyes into Mary's hair and placed his hands softly on her back.

She suddenly broke the embrace and searched around her. "Oh, god. We should get off the street!" she told them, and she took Hannah by the arm and checked for traffic before crossing to the sidewalk from which they came. Sam followed them, and Dean was right behind him.

"I don't know how I can thank you," Mary said to Sam once they were out of harm's way. "Really, most people here aren't that considerate."

"It's, uh—it's no trouble," Sam said, feeling like he was in a dream. "I mean, it's what anyone would do, right?"

"Wow, you're not from around here, are you?" Hannah said.

"No," Dean cut in. "Out of towners. I'm Dean; this is my brother, Sam."

"Well, I'm Mary," their mother told them before placing a slender hand on her daughter's shoulder. "And this is Hannah."

"Nice to meet you," Hannah said, looking pointedly at Dean.

"Sam, Dean," Mary said to them. "Really, thank you so much. I wish there was something I could do." She shook her head in thought. "How about dinner? I was just about to go home and throw a roast in oven."

"Roast?" Dean asked, his attention piqued, and Sam could almost see him salivating despite the fact that they'd just eaten.

"Oh, no, we wouldn't wanna intrude," Sam told her, but his eyes betrayed his hope to spend more time with her.

"It's no trouble," Mary insisted, so Sam and Dean couldn't refuse. "Great! We're parked right up the street."

As they followed Mary and Hannah to their car, Sam cast a fleeting glance behind him at the Doctor and the others, who were looking on in interest and confusion. He tried to give them an apologetic shrug without being too obvious before turning his eyes back to the front.

* * *

Across the street, Clara took a step forward as though to follow after the Winchesters, but the Doctor held her back.

"Where are they going?" she demanded. "They're the only ones with the mobile that can reach Sherlock!"

"I know, it's alright," the Doctor said, ushering her away. "We have their number if we need them. Let's just go on without them."

They all continued walking in the opposite direction of the Winchesters, but Clara noticed the Doctor shoot glances over his shoulder as they receded.


	9. Chapter 9

Merlin ran the tips of his fingers along the clothes on the rack, feeling the various materials that were new to his touch. As he walked, he kept his glance on Arthur, who was across the shop looking thoroughly uncomfortable as Clara held up shirts by the hangers over his chest before either stacking them onto the pile in his outstretched arms or replacing them on the rack. Arthur must have felt Merlin's eyes, because he looked over in a silent plea for help that made Merlin smirk and shrug.

He turned to another row of clothing, from which the Doctor popped out from behind. He was holding a pre-tied bowtie up in one hand, pointing at it and grinning wildly.

"I thought Clara said none of those?" Merlin said.

"But they're so cool, though!" the Doctor insisted, brandishing the tie before holding it out for Merlin to take.

Merlin looked at it warily. "Perhaps Arthur might like it," he said, reaching out to take the bowtie, but when he grabbed on to the fabric, the Doctor tightened his grip around it. Merlin met his eyes in confusion, and then clocked the dark expression the Doctor wore. He knew instantly that it was over the mention of Arthur.

"Doctor, he didn't burn up," Merlin tried to convince him. "He stepped through the door with us. What more proof do you need?"

"That only means you have a tighter hold on him than I thought," the Doctor said. "It doesn't change anything. As soon as we leave this universe, he will die. Don't allow him to take you with him. That's what our mysterious game keeper wants."

Merlin let out a heavy breath through his nose. "How do you know?"

"I've seen something like it before," the Doctor said, dropping his voice.

Merlin didn't know why, but he spoke in whispers, too. "You mentioned you had an idea of who's trapping us here. Who is it?"

"Like you said, it's just an idea. Don't want to jinx it," the Doctor answered casually.

It was at that moment that Merlin realized he was still clutching onto the bowtie between them. He looked down at it for a brief moment before releasing it. "It isn't  _cool_ , as you say," Merlin told him frostily as he backed away. The Doctor looked him up and down as Merlin turned to walk towards Arthur.

* * *

_All in their twenties, male and female, with different ethnicities and backgrounds._

Sherlock ran this over in his head again, trying to make sense of it. He had said there would be a connection between the victims but, as he and Castiel interviewed their loved ones, he was coming up short. With the victims' profiles aside, he tried to connect the dots through their last known locations, but that was also a miss. Parents, siblings, and roommates all told him the victim was at a friend's house or at the movies or something to that nature.

Currently, Sherlock sat on Jonathan Williams' couch, staring at the man himself as he fiddled with his fingers from the chair across. Castiel was hovering somewhere to the left, under Sherlock's strict instructions to stay out of the interview, especially after he had taken "bad cop" a step too far with one victim's mother.

They were currently looking into Jeremy Arnold's case. He had disappeared on the same night as Andy Matheson, and his father told Sherlock that Jeremy had been at Jonathan's during that night.

"Yeah, yeah, he was here," Jonathan was saying, his voice shaking slightly as he nodded feverishly. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the man sizingly. "We just watched a movie and stuff. Ordered a pizza. You know."

Sherlock noticed he wouldn't look him in the eyes, and instead busied himself by picking up an ashtray on his coffee table and studying it. However, Sherlock was happy for that: it gave him the opportunity to look about the room some more from his seat. He managed to sneak a peek at the rest of the apartment when Jeremy thought he was using the bathroom.

"Of course," Sherlock said, bringing his gaze back to Jonathan. "And for how long have you and Jeremy been intimate?"

To this, Jonathan's eyes darted directly to Sherlock's. They were wide and taken aback as the man stumbled over his own tongue. "In—Intimate?"

Sherlock hummed back in response. "Having intercourse," he clarified. If it were possible, Jonathan's eyes grew wider, and a choking sound came from his throat. When he didn't answer right away, Sherlock simplified further with an arched brow and an even tone: "Sex."

"I know what intercourse means," Jonathan said quickly, looking to Cas for either support or explanation. " _How_ —?"

"I started to suspect when Mr. Arnold, Sr. informed me of his son's whereabouts on the night of his disappearance. He said, 'he was probably at Jonathan's,' like he didn't quite know; but his son had been spending a good amount of time with you. Mr. Arnold knew of your affair, he just didn't say," Sherlock explained. "I knew for certain when I used your restroom earlier. Two toothbrushes—one was newer than the other, but they were identical, meaning they came in a pack. It hadn't originally been Jeremy's: You gave it to him to use.

"The fact that he hadn't brought one from home, and the rest of the contents in the toilet clearly belonged to only one man, suggests you weren't in a serious relationship. And yet you're willing to lie for him—not give his true whereabouts during the night he disappeared. Perhaps you're not lying for  _him_ , then? You're lying for yourself."

Jonathan was stammering again, and Sherlock bristled slightly in his seat before folding his palms together before his lips. He was aware of Castiel looking upon him from behind, too.

"That—I—That toothbrush could be anyone's," Jonathan said.

"It could be, yes," Sherlock said. "But it's Jeremy's, correct?"

"I—Okay, fine," Jonathan said, leaning forward. Castiel, too, walked closer and sat down on the arm of the couch. "Me and Jer were—we were fuck buddies. I wouldn't call it _intimate_." He said the last word like it was diseased.

Sherlock stayed silent, his gaze vigilant and imploring the man to go on.

Jonathan shuffled in his seat. "And, no, he wasn't here that night," he said. "He went to a—uh. A  _party_ ," he said carefully.

Sherlock raised a brow, suddenly more interested. Hadn't Andy Matheson gone to a party that night, too?

"A party?" he wondered.

"Okay, a  _rave_ ," Jonathan admitted. "We go together whenever we can. Hell, that's how we  _met_. But I didn't go that night. It was my brother's birthday, so I took him out for drinks instead."

"This rave," Sherlock said, getting back to the point. "Tell me more about it."

Suddenly, Jonathan's face drained of color. "No way. You—You guys are cops. You'll shut it down."

"Federal Agents," Sherlock reminded him of their cover. "And, I assure you, Mr. Williams, we have no interest in shutting down your rave. That isn't our branch's concern. We're simply trying to find the reason behind these disappearances."

Jonathan flushed, still awkward but willing to tell. "There were rumors of people disappearing during the rave," he said under his breath.

Sherlock heard it, anyway. "And people still go?" He supposed the party became more edgy that way.

Jonathan shrugged noncommittally. "Well, yeah," he said. "I dunno if you've noticed, man, but this is  _Lawrence_. There's not really much to do." Sherlock smirked. He had noticed. "Plus, I never thought the rumors were actually true."

He sat back in his chair and sighed heavily, as though he considered himself a traitor. "The rave's called the Game Zone," he said hurriedly, looking around himself in paranoia that someone was listening. "It's never in the same place twice—moves around so you cops can't find it, you know? Anyway. It happens every couple of days in like—I dunno—shut down gas stations or warehouses and shit." He let out a reminiscent laugh. "It's fuckin'  _awesome_ , man."

"Who organizes it?" Sherlock asked him next.

Jonathan leaned in close again. "No one knows her real name," he said in a low voice, a smile plastered on his face. "But everyone calls her the Toymaker."

"When's the next rave?"

"Tonight," was the answer, and Jonathan was hardly able to control his excitement despite the fact that his friend, along with many others, had disappeared from it. "I can, uh—I can give you the website?" he offered.

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. "That would be helpful," he said.

* * *

Merlin folded up his trousers, leather jacket, and tunic and left them atop the bench in the fitting room. He then untied the red scarf about his neck and placed it on top of the discarded clothes. It was a waste to leave good clothes behind, especially his boots, but he assumed it was for the best. Like Dean said, he didn't want to draw any attention to himself by wearing medieval clothes in a 21st century city. The jeans, trainers, and navy jumper that Clara had picked out for him would serve him better and, besides, he had more clothes in his chambers for when he returned to Camelot.

_If I return to Camelot_ , he mused, looking at himself in the full-length mirror and relaxing slightly. Whatever was to come later, he was happy to be away from the prying eyes of the Doctor now, if only for a moment. He thought back to what the Doctor said about how his race would still be alive if not for him, and Merlin wondered why that was. There was an uncomfortable constricted feeling in his chest as he realized he was beginning to reconsider his trust in the Doctor, but his speculations were cut short when he saw thrashing movements behind him.

" _Mer_ lin!" Arthur's muffled voice called helplessly, and Merlin looked over his shoulder to find Arthur with his arms raised and his head stuck as he attempted to put on a burgundy long-sleeved shirt. Merlin chortled softly before grabbing the bottom of the shirt and pulling it down to cover Arthur's bare torso. He worked on flattening out the wrinkles and bunches in the shirt while Arthur looked down at himself with his nose wrinkled.

"The fabric on these trousers is very stiff," he complained, looking down at his tan colored jeans.

"You're just not used to it," Merlin told him idly.

"And these shoes," he went on, jouncing up and down in his sneakers. "They're quite bouncy."

Merlin shot him an impatient look. "They'll have to do," he said before leaning down and picking up Arthur's chainmail and padding from the floor and setting it neatly on the bench. "Just be happy we haven't got to pay for it."

"Yes, I still don't know why they think I'm a Time Lord," Arthur said, playing with his sleeve. "Or what a Time Lord really is."

"I'm not sure I do, either," Merlin admitted. "Only that the Doctor is one of them."

"He seems very fond of you," Arthur observed.

Merlin let out a snort. "He just thinks he's protecting me."

Arthur furrowed his brow. "Protecting you from what?"

Merlin regretted his words immediately. He shook his head, feeling a lump grow in his throat. "Nothing," he said. "His fears are misguided."

"Tell me, Merlin," Arthur asked, his voice demanding but concerned. "Honestly."

The last word hit Merlin like a wall, and he suddenly couldn't look at Arthur, but he couldn't deny him either. He'd kept far too many secrets from the King in the past. "He believes you're connected to this world," Merlin said, pressure building in his eyes. "And that, as soon as I leave here, you will be gone." He decided to leave out the Doctor's theory of Merlin's getting weaker as Arthur grew stronger.

Merlin could see Arthur thinking this information over. "Meaning, when you return to Camelot, I won't be coming with you?"

Merlin hesitated for a moment, and then nodded.

Arthur slackened his shoulders as though a weight had been put on them. "And you think him to be right?" he asked, bravado in his voice.

"No!" Merlin denied a touch too quickly.

"He's been right about many things so far," Arthur reasoned. "You and the others—you look to him for answers."

"Not this one," Merlin reassured him. "I will not fail this time."

Arthur scrunched his brow together in thought. "Fail?" he repeated reprovingly, wondering why Merlin would use such a word.

There was a knock at the dressing room door. "You boys alright in there?" came Clara's voice.

Merlin blinked the water from his eyes and opened the door to her. He stepped back to reveal himself and Arthur and shrugged, as though to ask if they had put everything on correctly.

Clara beamed at them. "Very sharp," she told him with pride. She waved her hand vaguely around. "I should be a designer."

Merlin had no idea what that meant, but he agreed nonetheless. He was grateful for Clara: She didn't laugh or make fun of him like the others did when he didn't understand something about this world. He supposed, traveling with the Doctor, she had seen her fair share of futures and cultures she could not comprehend, and she knew what it was like to be confused by them. He was glad for her empathy.

"Now, come on," she told them, gesturing them out. "The Doctor's waiting outside. He said two hours was too long for shopping. Better go before he gets cranky."

* * *

Dean was staring longingly at the oven, watching the roast darken and sizzle behind the tinted plastic window. He could almost remember what Mary's cooking tasted like, if he thought really hard and fought passed the memories of bad diner food, and he wondered if this Mary's food would be as good. He turned his head away, bringing his attention back to the table, where he sat directly across from Hannah, who eyed him up and down. He cleared his throat and directed his eyes down to the tabletop, unnerved by the gaze. It was too much like Sam's when he wanted something from Dean.

"You, uh—you have a lovely home, Mrs. Bryant," he said, smiling at Mary, who had just finished tossing a salad.

She smiled warmly at him, the way he remembered, and stood behind her daughter's chair, resting her hand against the top and leaning into it. "Thank you," she said genuinely. "And, please, call me Mary."

Beside her, Hannah snorted sarcastically, and Dean wondered if it was like looking in a mirror for Sam. "Yeah, right," she complained. "The electricity sucks. The whole place is falling apart."

"Uh, that's only this level, honey. The upstairs is perfectly fine," Mary said in an apologetic tone. She looked back at Dean and Sam across the table. "We really should get someone in, but I guess that's what happens when one floor is older than the other."

Dean licked his lips in thought. "What d'you mean, older?"

"Oh, there was a fire on the second floor—gosh, close to thirty years ago," she answered, walking towards the cabinets and getting a few plates and utensils. "It was long before we moved in."

Dean and Sam's eyes met in a short, silent conversation. Sam then looked back at Mary. "A fire?" he asked.

Mary was setting the table at this point. "Yeah," she said, somewhat sympathetically. "Apparently a mother and her baby died in it. It's a real shame."

"Do you know what caused it?" Dean asked.

Mary shook her head. "You know, I don't. Maybe electrical? Whatever it was, I just hope it doesn't happen again." She gave a comforting smile before looking down at Hannah. "Help me bring the food to the table?"

"Sure."

"So, Sam, Dean, what do you boys do for a living?" Mary asked them from over her shoulder.

The Winchesters shared a look, deciding on what to say. It was Dean who responded, "We're hunters." He glanced at Mary to gauge her reaction.

"Oh, yeah?" she said in an interested tone, giving nothing away. "No wonder you're new in town. You must move around a lot. How'd you get into something like that?"

"It's, uh," Sam said, hoping to field her reaction more once Mary turned around with a plate of meat in her hands. "It's kind of a family business."

"What do you hunt?"

Dean's expression fell, and he noticed Sam's smile flicker slightly. Either Mary was very good at hiding it, or she had no idea what they were really talking about. Judging by the true curiosity in her eyes, Dean guessed it was the latter.

"Probably put that meat on your plate," Dean said with a forced smile.

Mary chuckled as she approached them. "Beef is farm raised."

"He was joking," Sam saved, looking pointedly at his brother.

Dean was already salivating when the carved roast beef was set in the middle of the table, and he didn't wait an instant before snatching a few slivers with his fork. Sam kicked him from under the table, catching his eyes and telling him not to be rude.

He looked back at Sam as though to say,  _Rude? This is_ my _house_.

Sam raised his brows at this.

Mary smiled at the exchange, not missing any of it. "Help yourself," she offered.

" _Thank_  you," Dean said with a sharp look at Sam. He began shoveling mashed potatoes onto his plate before passing them to Sam. The first bite was like Heaven on Earth, and he groaned into it. "This is delicious!" he exclaimed, like he knew it would be.

"Uh, Ma, don't you think Sam and Dean could use a beer or somethin'?" Hannah said.

"Oh, of course! They're in the fridge in the garage. I'll go get you boys some."

Sam shook his head. "No, it's really no big deal. We don't wanna be any trouble," he assured her, but Dean saw something flicker in his eyes. He didn't want Mary to leave his sight for a second, and he didn't blame him. It was rare that he should be in the same room as her at all back home.

"Sam, you must be joking," she said, smiling softly at Hannah. "It's really the least I can do."

" _Mom_ ," Hannah said embarrassedly, but as soon as Mary left the room, she sat down across from Dean again and resumed smiling at him like a schoolgirl.

"So, do you guys have anywhere to stay? I mean, you said you weren't local, right? The curfew starts soon, and you can never find a hotel after hours," she said in hushed tones. "You can stay here tonight, Dean. My bed's big enough. And we have a couch for Sam."

Dean started choking on his mashed potatoes, and Sam let out a soft gagging sound before slapping his brother on the back a few times until he began to breathe normally again.

At that moment, Mary came back into the room, holding two bottles of beer by the necks. She clocked the situation with a mixture of confusion and amusement in her eyes. "Everything alright in here?"

"Fine," Dean answered a hairline too quickly, and Mary seemed shocked by this as she reached down to hand the boys their drinks.

Sam noticed this and said, trying to recover for Dean, "Uh, Hannah was just telling us about the curfew?"

Mary finally sat down next across from him and began filling her own plate. "Oh, there's always a reason for it these days," she dismissed it with a wave of her hand.

Sam glanced at Dean sidelong, and then, "What is it this time?"

Hannah laughed. "Don't tell me you haven't heard of the bank robberies. They've been all over the news in every territory. What are you,  _from space_?"

"That's enough, Hannah," Mary told her before looking back at Sam and Dean. "And it's not just the banks. That's what started the earlier curfews, but then all those girls went missing. Just awful. They've extended the curfew so no one else would get taken, but it hasn't worked."

"Girls?" Dean asked, switching into hunter mode.

Mary nodded. "Mhm. At least five now—every night in a row. They say they're doing everything that can for them. They're not letting anyone in or out of the city. That's the real reason they stopped the Pathway. Well, that's what  _I_ think, anyway. And they set up roadblocks outside of the city, too, but they still can't find who's doing it."

"Yeah, it's been totally killing my social life," Hannah sulked. She then perked up a bit and looked at her mother. "Mom, if they don't have anywhere to stay, I told them they could stay here for the night.  _Please_!"

Mary looked at them with wide eyes, suddenly hesitant.

"God, no, it's—We've already overstayed our welcome, right, Dean?" Sam said politely, already standing up. "We better—"

"No. No," Mary said decisively, gesturing with her hands before placing them on the table on either side of her plate. "Hannah's right. You won't get very far during the curfew. I wouldn't feel right getting you two locked in jail."

Dean swallowed his last bite of food. "Uh, won't  _Mr._  Bryant mind?"

Both women suddenly cast their gaze to their laps. "No, it's—it's just me and Hannah now," Mary told them. "My husband died three years ago in the rebellions."

"Rebellions?" Sam inquired.

"Great, so you  _are_  from space!" Hannah joked, trying to lighten the mood. "The rebellions! Against the Time Lords, our so called masters— _dicks_."

"Hannah!" Mary scolded. "That's the kind of thinking that got your father in trouble in the first place." She was kinder when she addressed Sam and Dean again. "You can stay on the couches in the living room. I'll make them up with sheets after I finish the dishes."

"Thank you," Sam told her and then looked at Hannah. "Hey, do you—uh. Do you have a laptop I can borrow?"

Hannah shrugged. "Sure."

A few minutes later, Mary began clearing the table, and Sam got up to help.

"Let me," he offered, taking the stack of plates from her and starting towards the sink.

She smiled after him. "Such gentlemen," she complimented. "Your mother must have raised you right."

Sam shot Dean another look from over his shoulder.

* * *

Cas sat on a bench outside the Lawrence Public Library, a small concrete building of only one storey, nursing a Styrofoam cup of coffee that had turned lukewarm, but he drank it anyway. He supposed now he understood why humans drank the stuff in quantities. It was quite addicting.

Sherlock had been in the library for nearly forty minutes before bursting through the glass doors and bouncing down the concrete steps. There was a skip in his step as he paced the rest of the way to Castiel.

"Each rave corresponds with a night one or more of our victims went missing," Sherlock reported exuberantly. "Better still: the rave didn't start until four months ago."

"When people starting disappearing," Cas said, squinting up at Sherlock in the setting sun.

"Exactly," Sherlock said, and Cas had never seen him so happy. "Say each victim lied to their families about their whereabouts—said they were staying at a friends when, really, they were going to this rave."

"Like Jeremy Arnold did?"

Sherlock gestured in confirmation. "The rave is a cover," he said, sure of himself. "It's used as a hunting ground—taking people for  _something_."

Castiel nodded, turning this information over in his head. "That means the Toymaker is behind the disappearances."

"Kidnappings," Sherlock corrected. "Still no information on her identity, but I'm certain she must be behind it—or, at the very least, is savvy to it."

"Of course," Cas agreed, standing up. "Do you mean to tell the police?"

Sherlock waved the thought away. "Yes, yes, of course, but only after we're through with our search."

Cas looked mildly confused. "You want us to participate in this . . .  _rave_?"

"If we don't attend, how else will we get to the bottom of this?" Sherlock reasoned. "Tonight's take place in a barn outside of town." He slapped Castiel on the bicep, happier than he should be. "It's getting late. I suggest we get a move on."

* * *

The Doctor leaned against the brick wall and kicked at the loose gravel of the sidewalk with his boot. Mindlessly, he turned his head to the side and saw a new piece of paper skellotaped to the glass window. It read:  _New Curfew, 7PM_. Looking around he saw the same white pieces of paper stuck around the rest of the block—on walls, windows, telephone polls—but didn't think much of it. After all, this wasn't the first parallel world he'd seen with an enforced curfew.

_New universe, new rules_ , he thought, but secretly wished something sinister were going on. Yes, the Time Lords still lived, and that meant the Time War raged on, but the best thing he could do for that was get out of dodge as quickly as he could. He tried to remind himself that this was a world created for him, and the Time Lords would be gone again as soon as he left it.

And that was good. After all they'd done, that was for the best. Right?

He shook his doubts away and looked at the pavement beneath him, trying to focus on the waiting, but that only made him even more antsy. He never did waiting very well.

He had the power to travel across all of time and space, and he was stuck  _shopping_. He considered if all humans were like this—obsessed with shopping. It had been the same with Amy. He would take her to far away moons and civilizations billions of years into human history, and she would beeline straight to the shops every time. He smiled softly at the memory, wondering if she managed to buy all of New York before her passing. He supposed he'd never know.

"All set?" a voice said from next to him, and three pairs of feet came into his view. He looked up at Clara, Merlin, and Arthur. Clara saw the vulnerable look on the Doctor's face, and her expression fell. "Doctor? What is it?"

As her eyes searched him, he quickly thought of an excuse. He flung his wrist up to reveal his watch. "Seven o'two," he said. "You promised you'd be done at seven."

Clara rolled her eyes, but before she could answer, a loud siren started blaring through the streets, and the crowd immediately started thinning.

"What  _is_  that?" Arthur asked, agitated, while Merlin and Clara searched for the source of the klaxons.

The Doctor located a siren on the building next to them, and turned halfway around to look at it. "Curfew," he remembered aloud, and immediately regretted not questioning the curfew until that moment.

" _What_? Curfew? What for?" Clara complained, covering her ears.

The beeping subsided, and soon armored trucks and uniformed men—uniformed  _Time Lords_ —with guns started marching slowly down the road, yelling at stragglers to go home. The Doctor put his hand on Clara's back and started guiding the three of them away. He didn't want to have a run in with Time Lord soldiers. That would only spell trouble.

"C'mon," he said, making up another excuse and looking over his shoulder at the guards. "Last thing we need is no proof of identity during a curfew. We'd better find a place to hole up for the night. I saw a motel at the end of the road."

"Great," Clara said sarcastically. "Hopefully, in this universe, 'motel' means 'five-stars.'"

* * *

It didn't.

. . . Apparently.

To Merlin's eyes, it was the greatest room he'd ever seen. There was a television, which was apparently very common in this day and age, and two quilted beds that were big enough to fit two people each—something that he'd only seen in Arthur's chambers. What's more, there was a sink that required no pre-filling, because the water was _actually_  fed to it. It was all a wonder to him, but he tried to control himself and learn how everything worked properly. After all, there was a possibility all this would one day be part of his world.

_But not a strong possibility,_  he reminded himself hopefully.

While Clara showed he and Arthur all the tricks of modern plumbing and electricity, the Doctor tried phoning Dean and Sam, but they didn't pick up. Eventually, he gave up and told the others they would meet up with the Winchesters in the morning, since it was too risky to go out before curfew was lifted. He fell into an armchair next to the rickety wooden table in the corner of the room, where he stayed for the rest of the night, watching the news that was reporting a story about a chain of bank robberies across town. Clara took the bed closest to the window, and Merlin and Arthur took the other.

"Earlier today, we stood outside the house of Michelle Newton, the most recent victim of the kidnapping spree . . ." Merlin heard the woman on the TV say as he turned down the sheets for himself and Arthur, and then moved to sit on the mattress.

" _Mer_ lin!"

"Hmm?"

" _I_  need the left side of the bed!"

Merlin wrinkled his nose at Arthur. "Don't be such a prat! It's not a big deal."

Arthur's eyebrows darted to his hairline. "If it's not a big deal, why don't you just move?"

"Arthur—"

" _Quiet_!" the Doctor reprimanded, but he didn't take his eyes off the television screen. He fluttered his hand towards Clara to get her attention. "Clara, turn it louder." She did as she was asked with the remote.

" . . . So far, five young women have been taken from their homes," the woman on the screen was reporting, and a map of Lawrence came onto the screen, marking the streets the victims had been taken from in red. "The police have issued a statement to stay indoors during curfew hours, but did not make a statement about the kidnappings. As far as Channel Six can confirm, there are no suspects in question."

" _Please_ , Doctor," Clara said with a roll of her eyes. "You can't be serious. The police are probably taking those girls themselves, just to scare people about staying in for curfew."

"Or the curfew is set  _because_  the girls are being taken," he said.

Clara pointed the remote at the screen and it went black. "Then what are we waiting for?" she asked, moving to get out of bed.

"Sam and Dean," the Doctor reminded her.

"Who says they're not out looking for the girls right now?"

"Because they're with their mother," he told him. They all looked at him with shocked expressions.

"Their  _mother_? That woman was their mother?" Clara demanded.

The Doctor leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. "Yes, of course she was their  _mother_ ," he said. "And I haven't the foggiest where she lives, so we can't be wandering about the streets when men and  _Time Lords_  with machine guns are milling about. Something tells me they won't take lightly to strangers." He sighed, and took a sweeping look at them. "We stay put for the night."

Merlin scoffed and walked around the mattress to the right side of the bed. "Never thought I'd hear  _you_  say that, Doctor."

"Wisdom comes with age," he told Merlin pointedly, and Merlin shot him a weary look.


	10. Chapter 10

The music blasted, and Castiel could feel the bass from the speakers reverberate through the soles of his shoes, and he wondered how no law enforcers had been privy to the noise. He assumed that no other homes were located for miles around the foreclosed ranch, so perhaps this rave was noisier than the others. He didn't really want to find out.

He stood next to the bar, keeping his spine stiff and his limbs close to his body as he watched the unsavory dancing happening before him. To his right, a man and a woman had just swallowed colorful pills and were now chugging down water bottles. To his left, sitting at the makeshift bar in the cramped barn, was a man chatting up a pretty blonde girl who didn't look the slightest bit interested.

Sherlock had told Cas to keep his eyes peeled for any strange activity as he took a lap around the barn to investigate further. However, to Cas' eyes, all of this was strange. He looked up at the light of the moon peeking through the opening at the top of the barn. It lit up the abandoned hay and a deserted chicken coop on the next level, and Cas wondered what other animals might have lived on this farm before it was turned into a profane gathering.

When he brought his eyes back down to the front, there was a brunette in a shiny pink miniskirt smiling right in front of him. Cas could almost hear her chewing her gum above the thumping music, and he considered what she might have looked like under all that make-up.

Her mouth moved, forming words that Cas could not hear over the techno song.

He cupped his ear and leaned forward. " _What_?" he shouted.

She, too, leaned in. "I said, hey," she screamed.

"Oh," Cas said, leaning back into his own personal space. "Hello."

She smiled again. "You wanna dance, baby?" is what she said, but Cas only heard the last word and filled in the rest of the question by himself.

"No, no," he yelled back. "I'm not an infant." The woman knitted her brows together as Cas nodded down at her stomach. "I suggest you learn what a baby is. You'll need to know in nine months' time."

The woman looked taken aback for a moment, and then giggled. "You comin' on to me?" she yelled playfully.

Cas looked confused. "No," he said. "I only thought you should know."

The woman looked at him like he was crazy before turning around and marching off. Seconds later, Sherlock slid up to Cas' side. Cas acknowledged him with a look, but Sherlock kept his glance straight, surveying the crowd.

Finally, he leaned in to Castiel's side. "You seem uncomfortable," he said, and Cas saw a smirk on his lips in the flashing lights. "First rave, I take it?"

"Yes," Cas admitted. "I didn't think it would be so . . . Unscrupulous."

Sherlock laughed and folded his arms behind his back. "I'd never partake in them, either," he shouted so Cas could hear. "I find them very dull."

Cas saw the woman who had just come up to him now grinding with a young man.

"It doesn't  _seem_  dull," he said honestly, and Sherlock laughed again, although Cas didn't know why.

Then, Sherlock was back to business. "I found the Toymaker's office," he told Cas. "It's located in the house, but there are surveillance cameras all over it."

Cas nodded dutifully. "I can get us in." He turned to Sherlock, and Sherlock retracted slightly as he brought two fingers to his forehead. There was a beat before Sherlock opened his eyes again, one after the other. He looked around in wonder, and Cas realized the detective must have thought he was to be teleported again.

"What have you done?" Sherlock asked.

"I've turned us invisible," Cas explained, and Sherlock looked at him incredulously.

"Invisible?" he parroted.

"Technically, yes," Cas told him. "I diverted the visible spectrum away from us, manipulating the human eye so the brain won't register our image via the optic nerve—"

Sherlock was giving him a look again.

"What?" Cas asked, forgetting to shout this time.

Sherlock shook his head. " _How_?"

"You wouldn't understand," Castiel informed him, and Sherlock looked as though he'd just been slapped.

"Try me," he demanded.

Cas sighed. "Fine," he allowed. "Then you wouldn't  _believe_."

Sherlock shot him a filthy look, but evidentially decided they had better things to do. "We haven't the time to argue," he said. "Follow me. I'll show you to the office."

As they weaved through the crowd, Cas saw Sherlock wave his hand in front of a dancer's face every now and again, but it never elicited a reaction.

Cas was happy to leave behind the music and, as soon as he stepped out of the barn and into the open, the temperature dropped by at least fifteen degrees. He took in a deep breath, relishing the freshness of the air.

Sherlock led him across the grounds towards to the ranch house. Once inside, they checked every room for unwelcomed company before bee lining to the office Sherlock had spotted through the window when he was nosing about the property.

"Good," he said once they were inside the room. "She's still not here. That gives us time." He looked behind him. "Close the door."

Cas did so as Sherlock paced towards the laptop folded on the table and opened it. There was another monitor next to the laptop, showing the video feed from the empty house and the crowded party side-by-side. There was also a large generator in the middle of the room with thick, long wires splaying around it and connecting to the computers and light fixtures.

From his seat behind the laptop, Sherlock groaned. "Password encrypted," he said, peering around the room in search for clues. "She would change it frequently, perhaps whenever there's a new rave," he started. "That means she'd have been in this room when—"

"Let me," Cas said gruffly as he walked up to the laptop and placed his palm on top. The lock screen faded away and the desktop popped up in his place.

As Cas stepped aside, Sherlock looked up at him. "Yes, I can see how you could come in handy," he admitted sardonically, and it made Cas smile.

Sherlock's eyes flickered to the video monitor next to him, and his jaw tightened slightly. "There are two security officials crossing the lawn," he said, looking up at Cas. "Get rid of them."

Cas nodded. He couldn't see the men on camera from where he was standing, but he took Sherlock's word for it. "Of course," he said. "I can smite them."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Well, for god's sake, be more subtle than that."

Cas blinked.

"Cause a distraction on the dance floor," Sherlock snapped, gesturing to Castiel to get a move on.

He nodded his understanding again and disappeared.

When he landed, he was regrettably back in the barn, and body heat, blinding lights, and music loud enough to go straight through a person overcame him. He was in the center of the dance floor, still invisible, as frenzied dancers jostled him around.

He looked around, trying to find something to use as a distraction, when he caught sight of a large stereo on the side of the dance floor. He extended his hand towards it, concentrating hard, and the stereo system caught fire.

The MC screeched the music to a halt, his eyes wide as Cas caused another speaker to catch flame. All around him, people stopped dancing and began to scream. At once, they made a mad rush to the exit.

* * *

The muffled music had ceased in the background, which was good. Blocking it out was one less thing he had to think about now. Also, just as the music stopped, the men on the monitor had turned around and booked it back to whence they came. That gave Sherlock more time.

He clicked through all the files on the computer, snooping through a web of digital documents and skimming them all quickly. They mainly pertained to future plans and locations of the rave, but there were the odd bookkeepings and salary payments. He'd even found rent agreements and proof of under the table dealings for past and future locations for the festivities. All the documents had one thing in common: a signature.

_Celeste Montgomery._

Sherlock assumed she must be the so-called Toymaker.

He was led to another folder, and his eyes widened as he looked at the thumbnails of the PDF documents. They were newspaper clippings—amber alerts and missing persons notices. He enlarged the files at random until he was satisfied every victim he'd known about was on the list. Then there were those he hadn't heard of: people from out of town or other residence of Lawrence that had also gone missing—hundred of people. The list dated back to four months ago.

Suddenly, he heard voices coming from down the corridor. He looked at the surveillance monitor, seeing three people walking towards the office. It was two strong looking men and, between them, a redheaded sharply-dressed woman. Sherlock memorized her face with a smirk before clicking out of the documents and closing the laptop.

He didn't know if the invisibility trick Castiel had put on him still worked if they were separated, and he didn't want to risk finding out. Stealthily, he went to the window of the room and opened it fully before sliding outside. He shut the window behind him as soon as his feet touched the grass, and he felt heat on his back accompanied by an orange glow on the walls of the house. Behind him, he heard screams.

When he turned around, he saw the entire barn was on fire, and he sighed despondently.

* * *

Castiel was still in barn, and the flames had licked up to the second level, where the dried hay had caught fire. The ceiling was on fire now, too, and bits of debris rained down as more people pushed and shoved passed him to escape. He was just about to let himself be taken by the direction of the crowd when something caught his eye.

On the opposite end of the barn, a man and the woman he'd talked to earlier were being dragged away by two large men. In the haze of heat and the chaos of the crowd, he could not see the men's faces, so he attempted to push his way against the crowd to get closer; but he had little success.

He watched the two people get dragged out of the barn's back entrance, and he lost a visual on them.

"No!" he shouted, holding his hand out above the crowd as though he could reach the woman and man.

Knowing he wasn't going to get anywhere like this, he steadied himself and transported to the back of the barn by the small door they had been dragged through. He followed them through but, as he looked around the dark farmland, he saw no one. It was as though the four people vanished into thin air.

"Castiel!" he heard someone shout, and he looked over to see Sherlock rushing towards him.

Sherlock looked up at the burning barn, gesturing to Cas to coax him away. "Good distraction," he said, and Cas got the impression that he was being facetious. "Very subtle, indeed."

In the distance, sirens blared, and they both turned their heads in the direction of the noise.

"That's our cue," Sherlock told him. "And, no doubt, the Toymaker's, too. We had better get out of here."

With a flutter of wings, they were gone.

* * *

Sam looked up from the laptop screen as Dean entered the room, drying off loose drops of water from his hair with a towel.

"Finally got that shower, huh?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, in Hannah's bathroom," Dean told him, plopping down on the couch opposite. "I still feel dirty."

Sam snorted a laugh and glanced back down at the glowing screen.

"What d'you got?" Dean asked as he unfolded the blanket that Mary had left out for him. Sam had already made his makeshift bed, and he had his blanket across his lap.

"A lot, actually," Sam told him. "Looks like the Time Lords have been here for a while. Like, over a few decades. They colonized most of America, and they're still pushing up north where Canada's supposed to be."

"Who's got the rest of Canada?"

"The Daleks," Sam told him, blowing out his cheeks.

"Those robot things that moved the Earth that one time?" Dean asked.

"I guess," said Sam. "They also have control of the entire East Coast and the Caribbean. But the Time Lords are trying to get more land. They're spreading out to the Japanese islands and to, get this, Russo-China."

"Russo-China?" Dean repeated with a curl of his nostril.

"Yeah," Sam said, scrolling further down the page. "Some race called the Zygons has control of South America. The Middle East and Africa are taken over by Sontarans. Uh—the Sycorax have most of Asia, and something called a Silurian is in what's supposed to be Australia and New Zealand," he listed off, fumbling slightly on the foreign names. "I mean, even Antarctica is run by the Ice Warriors."

"What about Europe?" Dean wondered, leaning forward in interest. "Who's got them?"

Sam shrugged. "No one, apparently. And it looks like no one wants them. They're too busy fighting with each other and, if they're not doing that, they're in the middle of civil wars," he said. "And they're not the only ones at war. Apparently, the Time Lords and the Daleks are in the middle of something they're calling the Time War. They're even using human soliders. And, while they duke it out, the Americans have been uprising, trying to take back the land."

"Like Hannah's dad," Dean said.

"Right. But the Daleks have been squashing any attempts at a revolution, and the rebels have basically been getting their asses handed back to them by the Time Lords."

"Fun times." Dean leaned back against the sofa, and Sam wondered if he should tell him what else he'd found out. He decided to go ahead and say it.

"Yeah, Dean, but that's not all I found," he started.

Dean looked attentive. "Lay it on me, brother."

Sam looked back at the screen, which had now gone into sleep mode, and smiled a little awkwardly at what he was about to say. "As far as I can tell, there was no Apocalypse here—or Leviathans."

Dean looked taken aback. "What? Why not? I mean, even if we never existed, wouldn't the angels find someone else to be their meat puppets?"

Sam shrugged, and looked at his brother. "I guess not," he said. "Remember what Gabriel said? They always knew it was gonna end with us, and we were never born, so . . ."

"Huh," Dean said after a moment. "Well, I'll be damned."

"I know," Sam said, feeling the weight of all that implied.

Apparently, Dean felt it, too. "I mean, the world is a steaming pile of crap right now, but . . . No Apocalypse. No demons running our lives. That's probably why Mom's alive." He seemed to come out of his thoughts long enough to look at Sam. "Makes you wonder who else is still out there."

"Yeah," Sam agreed, but he couldn't allow himself to hope. "But, Dean, that doesn't change anything."

"It changes everything," Dean came back with. "Think about it. Mom's here. Dad might be alive, too, and who else? Bobby, Jo, Ellen—maybe even Jess, or—or Sarah."

Sam shook the thought away. "So, what, Dean? We pack up and go looking for them?"

"Hell, no!" Dean said instantly. "We're the reason they're dead in the first place. I'm sayin' we stay thousands of miles away from all of them. But they  _are_  alive out there, Sam. And you and me . . ." Sam couldn't tell if that was a grimace or a smile on Dean's face. "We're just normal, average guys here, ya know? Not the guys who stopped Lucifer or friggin Dick Roman. There's no Crowley up our ass, and you—" He gestured towards Sam. "You wouldn't have to deal with those trials. People'll stop dying because of us. I mean, don't you ever get tired of that?"

Sam's brows were furrowed now as he listened to his brother. "Dean," he started. "What are you saying? You want some kind of fresh start?"

"No!" Dean answered quickly, and then he sat back again in thought, seeming to revise his answer. "I dunno. Maybe," he allowed. "Chances like these don't come too often, Sam."

Sam didn't know what to say. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, willing coherent words to come out, but the only one that did was, "Dean—"

"You know what, forget it," Dean said, running his palms over his face and eyes and trying to act like the prior conversation had not happened. "I'm just exhausted. I should get some sleep—and you should, too! Put the research away, you nerd."

Sam rolled his eyes slightly. "Dean, I'm—"

"Don't you say you're fine, alright?" Dean warned as he laid back on his sofa. "Because that's bull."

Sam let out a sigh and slammed the laptop closed in defeat.

" _Thank_  you," Dean grumbled as Sam placed the computer on the coffee table and reached next to him to turn off the lamp. "Goodnight."

"Yeah," Sam said back, but he couldn't fall asleep. He stared up at the ceiling with Dean's words circling around his head.

* * *

He was walking through a dark forest, running his fingers along the barks of the trees as he searched. He didn't know exactly what he was searching for, but he'd know once he'd found it. Finally, he did, and he felt his magic brimming over, threatening to explode beneath his fragile skin. He placed his hand on the center of the trunk before him and seared a sigil into it. It looked like a sideways S with two vertical lines running parallel in the middle. He wondered what the sigil meant.

Suddenly, he was in midair, and a winged beast screeched as it flew across the sky, silhouetted against the moon, before it took an abrupt dive. Its yellow eyes were piercing as it swooped over Merlin's head and let out a roar, spewing fire right at him . . .

Merlin woke with a gasp, blinking away the disorientation. For a moment, all was dark, and then his eyes adjusted to the light that peeked through the window from the city outside. He sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes, wondering why he had dreamt of Kilgharrah. He hadn't spoken to the Dragon since Arthur's death, and he didn't even know if the creature was still alive. Merlin hadn't felt him die, so perhaps he was still alive, although he supposed he was not in this universe. He blinked, trying to rationalize the dream, but it was already slipping away from him.

What had he seen before the Dragon?

He felt a chill run down his spine, and he turned his neck to look at the window, which was open and letting in a breeze that made the curtains twist and billow. Clara wasn't in bed, and Merlin's heart sank when he looked to the chair in the corner and realized the Doctor, too, was gone. Wherever they had gotten off to, he supposed they were safe if they were together, but he couldn't help but to feel annoyed that they had gone exploring without him.

That was until he heard the sheets ruffle next to him, and he gazed down at the blonde tufts of hair that faced him. Arthur shuffled slightly, obviously having been woken by Merlin, but not long enough for consciousness to take over completely. Merlin listened to his breath go in and out in soft rhythmic snores, contented.

A moment later, he heard the lock on the door turn, and the Doctor came through holding a can of liquid in his hand, letting the light of the car park beyond flood through and cast his shadow on the carpet. He stood framed in the threshold for a guilty moment after catching Merlin's eyes.

"Went to get a lemonade from the vending machine," he said, pointing to the can before adding, somewhat disappointedly, "It isn't fizzy."

Merlin stayed quiet, blinking. He didn't believe the Doctor.

Instantly, the Doctor's eyes flashed to the rest of the room. "Where's Clara?" he asked uneasily.

Merlin remembered the empty bed. "I—" he started, shaking his head. "I thought she was with you."

The Doctor dropped his drink and rushed to the open window.


	11. Chapter 11

Sam and Dean met the Doctor, Merlin, and Arthur where they'd last seen them, outside the diner in town, as soon as the sun rose and, therefore, the curfew lifted.

"So, what's the big emergency?" Dean asked the Doctor. He had left an urgent voicemail on Sam's phone early in the morning.

"It's Clara," the Doctor said, and Sam noticed at last that Clara wasn't with them. "She's been taken."

"Taken?" Sam repeated. "By who?"

"Whoever it was, they were very silent," Arthur told them. "Merlin and I weren't even woken."

"Maybe it isn't human," Merlin considered, turning to Sam. "Have you come across anything that takes people in the middle of the night?"

Sam snorted in thought. "A whole list of things," he said. "But, Doc, Clara's not the only one missing."

The Doctor nodded. "I saw the news report last night. There are five other girls, too."

"Yeah, and a shit load of cash," Dean said.

"You mean the bank robberies?" the Doctor asked.

"Yeah," nodded Sam. "Me and Dean were thinkin'—maybe the two are somehow connected."

"You mean, whoever's committing the robberies is also taking these women?" asked Arthur.

"Or there's a team of 'em," Dean said.

The Doctor appeared to ponder this, and then nodded as though it made sense. "Good thinking," he said after a moment.

"Just a hunch," Sam told him. "But I'd like to see where the banks that were hit are in relation to the vics' houses."

Dean turned to him. "Library?"

* * *

The Lawrence Public Library was huge. A grand building of nearly fifteen stories, lined with books pertaining to history, science, and the geographies of Earth and thousands of other planets. Merlin saw works of fiction and nonfiction written by authors from across the galaxy, and he noticed Sam's interest piqued as they walked through the aisles—his fingers itching to take down each and every book he found.

However, they contained themselves to the section of the library that dealt with local records. While Sam searched for more news articles on the computer, Dean was looking at a map of the area, and Arthur was busying himself searching a dusty box of folders and public archives.

Meanwhile, Merlin stood next to the Doctor in one of the nearby aisles and pulled another atlas off the shelves, this one covering the entire Time Lord Territories. He stared down at the hardcover for a beat, his mind miles away.

Finally, he turned his head sharply to the side to size the Doctor up. He couldn't hold it in any longer. "Where did you go last night?"

"Hmm?" the Doctor asked at first, and Merlin couldn't tell if he was trying to recall something or trying to make something up. Either way, he was stalling. He looked down at the book he was holding and flipped through the pages quickly. "Told you, I was getting a flat lemonade down the hall," he said passively.

Merlin let out a snort of disbelief. "You were right down the hallway for what—a minute?" he asked skeptically. "And you didn't see your friend getting kidnapped?"

From the spine, the Doctor slammed the book shut with one hand and rounded on Merlin. "What are you suggesting?"

Merlin's jaw tensed but he did not falter from the Doctor's stare. "Where did you  _really_  go?"

The Doctor sighed, knowing he was caught. " _Fine_ ," he said dismissively. "I went to find the Time Lords—just a bit of snooping."

"What?" Merlin looked at him in disbelief.

"Doesn't matter," the Doctor said as an excuse. "I couldn't find them. Their base must be outside of the city—"

"Why didn't you wake me?" Merlin interrupted. "We could have gone together."

The Doctor suddenly looked somber. "You know  _why_ , Merlin."

Merlin had to keep himself from pinning the Doctor against the wall with magic. He swallowed down the urge. "Because of Arthur?" he asked, glaring.

The Doctor looked around, as thought to make sure Arthur wasn't standing over his shoulder. "He's not  _really_  Arthur, Merlin. I keep saying."

But Merlin wasn't about to have this conversation again. He was sick of it—sick of the Doctor treating him like he needed a babysitter. "And that's why you left Clara behind as well, is it?" he said callously. "You knew she wouldn't go without Arthur and me."

"Merlin—" Merlin took that as a yes.

"You are a hypocrite," Merlin told him frigidly, keeping his voice low. "Even now, you tell me Arthur isn't real, and yet you spent all night searching for your people? Why are they dead, Doctor? Answer me that."

"This is different," the Doctor told him, and Merlin cocked his head to the side and shot him a look. "The Time Lords may be connected to our current predicament. I understand why you're angry—"

"I don't think you do."

"—But I'm just trying to help you."

"Trying to help me?" Merlin repeated slowly, shaking his head in incredulity. "You're not. I believe you see yourself in me—in what I'm to become. You want me to leave Arthur behind because you want me to be just like you."

"Merlin," the Doctor began to reason, and Merlin saw an ancient rage building in him. He dared the Doctor to let it loose. "You're not thinking clearly. Be rational. They  _want_ you weak. You  _have_  to let the past go."

" _Me_?" said Merlin, affronted. "Coming from the man who saw Amy's ghost in the manor?" The Doctor froze, fury in his eyes, which satisfied Merlin: It told him his guess about Amy was right. "I will let my past go, Doctor," he went on. "But why don't you first?"

The Doctor did his best to keep his wrath in check. "You're becoming too emotional, Merlin. You're not seeing sense."

" _You're_  the one who couldn't put your feelings aside and have us stick together.  _You're_  the one who let Clara get stolen because  _you_  weren't there to protect her."

Merlin felt the magic bubbling in his fingertips as the Doctor crowded in close, his jaw set in anger and his eyes cold as they bore into Merlin's.

"Uh, everything alright over here?" Sam's voice came from down the aisle, and Merlin and the Doctor broke their staring contest to look at him.

"Right as rain," the Doctor said through his teeth, casting Merlin another glare before yanking the book from his hands and stalking towards a table outside the aisle, away from the rest of the group.

Merlin couldn't stop looking at him, and he was suddenly aware of Sam's hand on his shoulder. He turned his neck to look at him.

"Don't worry about him," Sam said, misreading the situation. "He's just a little raw right now."

The muscles in Merlin's jaw twitched, but he nodded and Sam started back towards the group. Merlin watched him for a few steps, until he blurted out, "Sam."

Sam spun around and looked at him quizzically.

"The way your parents died," Merlin went on, noticing Sam straighten up a bit, his defenses building behind his eyes. "If you were given the chance to . . .  _undo_  it somehow, bring them back—would you take it?"

Sam considered this for a moment. "I dunno," he said at last with a shrug. "Maybe."

"Seriously?" Merlin pushed. "If you had the opportunity, whatever the cost, would you?"

Sam's eyes searched his face, but Merlin couldn't tell what he was thinking. Eventually, he looked as though he were about to answer, but then Dean's voice sounded from the table outside the aisle.

"Sammy?"

Neither of them moved for a moment, until Sam turned back and answered.

"C'mere, I think I found somethin'."

Merlin followed Sam to Dean, who was now joined by Arthur. Presently, the Doctor joined them when he heard Dean's announcement.

"What is it?" the Doctor asked, pushing his way between Merlin and Arthur to look at the map that Dean had been poring over on the tabletop.

"Here," Dean said. He had placed round red and blue stickers along the map of the town, and he pointed at a few of them. "Bank robberies happened within a mile of all the kidnappings, right?" he went on. Then he lifted up the map, revealing another beneath it, this one with only red dots upon it. "Well, guess what runs underneath all the banks." He pointed to the markings on the map that were indicated with the letter P in a small box.

"The Pathway?" Sam said, catching on. "So what are we thinkin'?"

Dean shrugged. "Could be anythin'. Shifter?"

"Shifter?" Arthur inquired.

"Shape shifter," Sam explained before looking back to Dean. "Better take a look at the surveillance at the banks, then. Maybe the rest of town, too." He turned to the Doctor. "Doc, me and Dean'll take care of the banks. They'll have private surveillance—but d'you think you can hack into the streets' video feeds?"

"Yeah, look for the eyes," Dean told him. "It'll be like a camera flare—tell ya if they're a Shifter."

The Doctor took out the sonic. "Got it," he said. He then reached into his pocket and handed Dean the physic paper. "Use this to gain access to the banks."

"What can we do?" Merlin asked Sam.

"Scout out the subways," he said. "If Shifters really are taking these girls, maybe they're turning into them? See what you see—but don't do anything until we all get there." He reached into his pocket and took out his jagged knife and pressed the handle into Arthur's palm. "Take this just in case."

"Yeah, it's not silver," Dean said. "But it takes out demons, so I figure it'll leave a scratch, right?"

"What's so important about silver?" Arthur inquired.

"It's like venom to Shifters. Only thing that'll stop 'em," Dean told them.

Arthur pocketed the knife and Merlin nodded his understanding. On his way out, he saw the Doctor shoot him a lingering glare.

* * *

A few minutes later, Sam and Dean jostled down the steps of the library and squinted in the sunlight as they looked up and down the block. "First bank's this way," Dean said, pointing up the street. He started in that way, but Sam reached out and held him back.

"Wait, Dean. Hang on," he said as Dean faced him.

"What is it?"

"It's just," Sam started. "I've been thinking a lot about what you said and . . . Don't you find any of this a little weird?"

Dean scrunched his nose and shifted his eyes back and forth in speculation. "We're in a parallel world, Sam," he said after a moment. " _Of course_  I find it weird."

"No, not that," Sam said. "I mean . . . Like, Mom and Dad, for one thing. They're not together here."

"Yeah, Sam, think about it," Dean told him. "That's 'cos there's no us."

"Well, yeah, I guess it makes sense that Mom never met Dad," Sam said. "No dick angels were forcing them together so we'd be born."

Dean nodded. "Sure. Gramps doesn't get sent to us in the future, so he doesn't die—gives Dad a happy, apple-pie life. Dad doesn't join the Marines, doesn't get relocated, doesn't meet Mom. And they both live happily ever after with some other family." Dean clearly didn't like the idea of that last part: Sam could see it etched on his face. Dean shook his head. "But he wouldn't be Dad. He'd be a whole different person—probably a geeky Man of Letters or somethin' like," he said, trying to make an excuse for it.

"Yeah, but, Dean, that's just it," Sam said, licking his lips and looking away in thought. "Maybe that was the way he  _should have_  been—and it's our fault that he wasn't. He could have been happy; Mom could have been alive . . ."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "What d'you mean?"

"I dunno," Sam admitted with a deep breath. "It's just—maybe this isn't such a bad thing, ya know? I mean, you said it last night: Think of all the people who'd still be alive if we never existed. Not just Mom and Dad, but Bobby, Jess, Rufus—Jo and Ellen. Do I need to keep going? They all have  _families_  here. Maybe it's better if we don't find Clara and move on to the next level or whatever? Maybe it's better if we never—"

" _Don't_ , Sammy," Dean cut him off, a bite in his tone. His eyes grew harder with each of Sam's words. "Don't say it."

"But, Dean—"

"Look, I hear you, alright?" Dean said, his voice a near shout, eliciting some strange looks from passerbys. "God knows I thought it—but we've been down this road before, Sam, and we know how it ends." Sam opened his mouth to protest, but Dean wouldn't allow him a word. "Do I wish things were different? Hell yeah! But they ain't, and we gotta power through. Right now, we got a job to do, and it's finding Clara and finishing whatever sick game we're in. 'Cos this is obviously our level, and we gotta beat it—for our sake, and for everyone else relying on us. No what ifs, ands, or buts, you go it? Now, are you with me?"

Sam let out a breath, and he didn't meet Dean's gaze.

"Sammy! Are you with me?"

"Yeah, Dean!" Sam said back without much conviction, finally looking his brother in the eyes. "You know I'm with you."

Dean straightened his shoulders. "Good. Now, come on. We got a missing girl to find."

He started down the sidewalk, and Sam watched him go for a moment, giving him a head start. He knew Dean was just talking big, but he didn't believe his own words—they were words he said for the sake of his little brother. It was clear in the way Dean walked: hunched and rigid, using all his willpower not to take a glance back.

He followed after Dean.

* * *

They sat outside the library again, Sherlock sorting through the documents he'd printed out inside and Cas squinting as he tried to read the pages upside down.

"Here," Sherlock said, spinning a document around on the metal-mesh tabletop between them to face Cas. It was a photocopy of a woman's driver's license. "Celeste Montgomery is an alias. Her real name is Madeline Corbet, a local high school teacher—lived alone. She went missing nearly six months ago."

Cas took the document in his hands, looking down at the redhead in the picture. " _She's_  the Toymaker?"

Sherlock hummed an affirmative response.

Cas looked back at him. "How do we find her?"

"Ah, that's just it," Sherlock told him. "Her prior apartment has been rented out, and there's no family to speak of. I looked into her alias, and couldn't find any living properties connected to that name. However, Celeste Montgomery does own  _one_  thing."

He turned another page around to show Cas, and he tapped his finger next to a line of coded numbers and letters. Cas narrowed his eyes at it, trying to decipher the writing.

"A cargo container in a train yard five miles out of town," Sherlock explained.

"That could be where she's hiding the missing persons," Cas theorized.

Sherlock shrugged noncommittally. "I doubt it's big enough for so many people," he said. "But she's certainly hiding something." He sat back on his bench. "We'll peek our noses in tonight after dark. The train yard closes at eleven PM."

* * *

Merlin and Arthur sat on a bench across the street from a barricaded Pathway entrance, keeping a sharp eye out for anything suspicious, as Sam had told them to do. Well, at least Merlin was following those orders. Arthur, on the other hand, looked pensive and taciturn, and Merlin wondered if he was thinking about what he'd told him the day before.

"Dean and Sam," Arthur said at once, nodding decidedly. It made Merlin look at him in question. "They seem very noble. They remind me of my men."

Merlin had to agree. "They're good men," he said.

"Your doctor friend doesn't seem to trust me very much," Arthur voiced now that they were finally away from any foreign listeners.

"It's not that," Merlin assured him with a sigh. "It's just—I told you, he doesn't know what to make of you. He doesn't understand."

Arthur gave a haughty snort. "Well, _I_  understand," he said. "It's not every day someone rises from the dead."

Merlin wrinkled his nostril in thought and shrugged. "They just might around the Doctor."

"I suppose he is the odd sort," Arthur agreed.

Merlin took a sweeping glance up and down the street, watching the crowds go by, clocking every face. However, he wasn't so much looking for any of the missing girls as he was observing this brave new world. He took in all the modern dress and the gray architecture; he subconsciously counted how many people were staring down at their mobile phones instead of watching were they were walking; he listened to the medley of music drifting out of the shops. He wondered if the future was really like this—the proper future—or if these were aspects belonging solely to this universe.

"The world certainly has changed," Arthur said from beside him, apparently reading Merlin's thoughts. "I could never get used to all this."

Merlin glanced at him for a moment before turning his attention back to his task. "Hopefully we won't have to," he told Arthur.

"You mean, hopefully you won't have to wait for me that long?"

Merlin abandoned his search of the crowd, and when he turned his neck to lock eyes with Arthur, Arthur was already staring at him.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"For me to come back," Arthur said as though it were obvious.

Merlin gaped at him for a moment, and then said slowly, "How do you know about that?"

Arthur shrugged. "You must have mentioned it to me earlier."

Merlin furrowed his brow, trying to recall telling him that, but couldn't. "Must have . . ." he said regardless. Then he shook his head. "But that doesn't matter anymore. Arthur, you  _are_  back." Why did no one believe that but him?

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't be stupid, Merlin," he said. "You told me what the Doctor said: As soon as you leave this place, I'll be gone."

Merlin shook his head as Arthur said this. "Don't say that," he said, his words overlapping Arthur's last.

"It's really alright, Merlin," Arthur said, laughter in his tone, as though it were no big deal at all. "I'm not afraid of dying."

"I don't care  _what_  you're afraid of," Merlin told him crossly. "I will find a way to bring you back to Camelot—I swear it. I'm not leaving here without you, Arthur."

They held each other gaze for a long moment, until Arthur finally broke it, shook his head, and stared out at the throng of people. "You're very idiotic. Do you know that?"

Merlin followed his gaze. "Most people would call it determination," he replied. "But then, you're not most people."

He was aware of Arthur's eyes on him again.

"No," Arthur said thoughtfully. "I suppose I wasn't to you."

Across the way, a figure in a dark hoodie ducked under the barricade to the Pathway and stepped into the sunlight. She got a few looks from pedestrians, but no one stopped long enough to ask her what she was doing in a closed down subway station.

Merlin sat up straighter. "Who is that?" he thought aloud, and Arthur looked back at the crowd, too.

Merlin squinted his eyes, trying to get a better look at the woman, but her back was to them. Suddenly, she looked around, her big brown eyes scanning the street wildly.

"It's Clara," Arthur said.

Clara shoved her hands casually into her hoodie's pockets and started down the street. Merlin and Arthur stood up quickly, following her with her eyes and she began to disappear into the sea of people. Arthur moved to go after her, but Merlin stuck out his arm, holding him back.

"It may not really be Clara," he said. "We should keep a distance."

Arthur agreed, and they followed after her at a slow pace, making sure to stay a few feet behind her at all times as she walked. Eventually, she led them to the front of another bank, but she did not go inside. They watched as she idly crossed to a newspaper stand on the sidewalk and took out the day's  _Tribune_ , casting glancing at the bank over the top of the paper as she pretended to read.

Merlin and Arthur hid in the shadows of a side alley, peeking around the wall to keep tabs on her.

"Do you think she's casing the building for another robbery?" Arthur wondered.

"Probably . . ."

In the distance, Clara folded up the paper again and set it down. She pulled something out of her hoodie pocket, and the black metal caught the sunlight before she hid it again.

"Or she'd already targeted it," Merlin finished as Clara began crossing the street.

"We can't wait for the Winchesters," Arthur decided, taking out the knife and briskly exiting the alley.

Merlin tried to grab him and pull him back inside, but missed him by an inch. "Arthur,  _no_!" he hissed.

But it was too late. Someone on the sidewalk let out a loud scream.

"He's got a knife!" someone else shouted, and it didn't take long before people were dodging out of Arthur's way and running for the side streets. Arthur stopped walking and looked around at the chaos in confusion, not understanding that brandishing a knife was frowned upon in modern society.

Merlin looked passed Arthur to where he'd last seen Clara, but she was gone. He quickly scanned the block, until he saw a black hoodie disappear around a corner. He bolted from his hiding place and grabbed Arthur by the shirt, dragging him only a few steps before releasing him and racing after Clara.

Arthur was toe and toe with Merlin as they turned the corner and spotted Clara running against the flow of the crowd.

"There," Merlin said, swatting Arthur for his attention and pointing down the street. They set after her again, and they had nearly caught up to her when she turned a corner into an alley.

When they reached the alley, Merlin could only see a low chain link fence, which he assumed Clara had gotten over somehow so he continued to run. Suddenly, his foot connected with something wet and slimy, and he slipped, falling hard on his back and landing in the puddle of goop.

Arthur ran to a halt at a few paces passed Merlin, looking around for any sign of Clara before trotting back to Merlin and offering him a hand. Merlin took it gratefully and hoisted himself up.

"You've got something on you," Arthur said, turning his nose up at the substance that now coated the back of Merlin's shirt.

Merlin strained his neck to look at his back as Arthur picked a piece of flab off Merlin's shoulder and held it up.

"What  _is_  it?"

Merlin looked down at the pile he had slipped in, and saw there was a trail of the stuff leading to the base of the fence. He crouched down and followed the peach and crimson colored sludge until he saw something recognizable among it, and his face contorted in utter disgust as Arthur bent down and picked it up for examination.

"Is that an  _ear_?" Merlin said, feeling as though he was going to vomit.

Arthur looked up at him and frowned. "It appears so."

Merlin turned away from it, and Arthur shook his head.

"It's only an ear, Merlin."

"Yes, that isn't attached to anything!"

Arthur stood up, still holding the ear in one hand. "Imagine  _you_  being afraid of ears," he said lightly. "Do you get a fright every time you catch your reflection?"

Merlin furrowed his brows. "What?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Nothing," he said impatiently, looking back down at the trail of goo. "This must be flesh. Dean and Sam are right: Whatever this creature is, it can morph into others."

"Messily," Merlin added, and then a thought struck him. "If it turned into Clara, that must mean it has her."

Arthur nodded. "And it's keeping her in the Pathway." He dropped the ear back into the grime. "We'd better get back to the library. The other's will want to know of this."

He slapped a palm on Merlin's shoulder blade to get him to move along, and Merlin winced slightly in the unexpected soreness it caused. However, Arthur didn't notice the grimace. He was looking down at his hand, which was now covered in the same ooze as on Merlin's shirt. He wiped his palm on Merlin's sleeve in repugnance.

* * *

The Doctor leaned back in his chair with his ankles crossed on the desk before him, despite how many dirty looks the librarian had shot him over the course of the last few hours. He merely offered her a polite smile back, wondering why she didn't smile in return.

Dean and Sam had told him to look out for odd lens flares in the video surveillance, but he found nothing while observing the tapes from the night before and the rest of the day. On a hunch, he decided to backtrack, starting with the feed from the previous day.

He watched people mill about, paying close attention to their eyes. He leaned on the back legs of his chair when he switched the angle of the camera to find footage of himself and the others walking out of the diner. He witnessed the moment when Sam and Dean saw their mother, and he saw Hannah walking across the street as a car zipped towards her. He saw Mary's fearful reaction. Then he saw something he was not expecting . . .

The Doctor's body jolted in surprise, causing himself to lose balance on the chair and topple over with a thud. The librarian glared at him again and scolded him with a piercing  _shhh_ , but the Doctor hardly noticed. With his hair now askew, his head popped up from under the desk to look at the computer monitor again. He didn't bother to set the chair upright again, and instead stayed on his knees as he scrambled for the mouse.

He replayed the footage.

* * *

Dean and Sam found the Doctor where they had left him, intently reviewing the live footage of the video feed, while Merlin and Arthur sat silently across each other at one of the tables. Sam knitted his brows together in confusion at the dried substance lining the back of Merlin's jumper, but didn't say anything about it.

Merlin and Arthur stood up immediately when they saw the Winchesters, looking at them expectantly. The Doctor, however, barely acknowledged them.

"Alright, well, we know it's a Shifter robbin' the banks," Dean reported. "And he's using the using the missing girls' identities. We only hit three of the banks, but threes a pattern, right?"

"Four, actually," Arthur told them, leaning against the end of the table with his arms crossed. Merlin mimicked his stance. "We saw Clara in town," he continued, and he and Merlin explained what had happened, which satisfied Sam's curiosity about what happened to Merlin's shirt.

"Well, at least we know she's still alive, or else the Shifter couldn't use her," Dean said. "That's somethin'."

"Yeah," Sam agreed. He looked back at the Doctor, who was still looking at the grainy footage. "Doc, you hearin' this?"

"Already heard it," the Doctor answered. "Before you showed up."

Sam suddenly realized why the Doctor was so fixated on the monitor: He was looking for Clara.

"But there's something you should see," the Doctor said, clicking out of the window and pulling up another. The rest of the group leaned in over his shoulder, and Sam was confused to see the playback of saving Hannah from getting run over.

"What are we lookin' at?" Dean wondered.

"Just look," the Doctor told him as Hannah began walking across the street. "Here!"

Hannah looked up to face the muted car horn but in front of her eyes were two ovals of distorted light. They were only there for a brief moment before Sam knocked her out of the way.

Sam stood up straight in realization.

"Oh, come on, man," Dean said angrily. "Not the girl!"

"I'm sorry," the Doctor said genuinely.

At that moment, Sam's phone began to vibrate in his jacket, and he took it out to stare at the illuminated screen. "It's Mom," he told Dean. They had given Mary their number earlier that morning.

"Well, pick it up!" Dean demanded, and Sam did so.

"Sam!" Mary's voice came from the other end. She sounded frazzled. "Sorry to call, I just—I didn't know who else I could talk to. It's Hannah."

Sam didn't break eye contact with his brother. "Hannah?" he asked, playing dumb, but there was real concern in his voice. "What is it?"

"She's missing," Mary told him. "I—I went to go wake her up this morning, and she wasn't there. I tried her cell, all her friends. Nothing."

"Alright, slow down," Sam said, trying to calm Mary down. He hated the panic in her voice. "Did you go to the police?"

Mary scoffed. "Of course, I did! I was at the station all day. But they told me it wasn't a missing persons case until twenty-four hours. But she disappeared the same way as the others." He heard Mary take in a steadying exhale. "I can't just sit here and do nothing, Sam. She's my daughter."

"Okay, alright," Sam said with a nod, even though Mary couldn't see it. "Just stay put, alright, Mary? We'll be right over. We're bringing people who can help."

He met Dean's gaze again.

"And, Mary? We're gonna need all the silver you've got."

* * *

They took a backpack from Mary and loaded the entire drawer of fine silverware into it, and they continued to search the contents of the kitchen and china cabinet for anything else they could use. There was a silver tea set which would have come in handy if they had the resources to melt it down into bullets, but Dean found a silver plated cake knife that they figured might come in handy. It wasn't much, but it would have to do.

Mary stood leaned against the sink, her arms crossed as she watched them work with curiosity and wariness. "I still don't get why you're doing this," she told them with a shake of her head.

"Trust us," Dean told her. "This is only way to get your daughter back."

Mary snorted. "Or you could be robbing me blind."

Sam stopped what he was doing and walked over to Mary. "Tell you what," he leveled. "As soon as we get Hannah back, we'll return all of this. Promise. We just—we need it right now. It'll help."

Mary laughed incredulously and threw her arms up. " _How_?"

Sam swallowed hard as she met his eyes, and there was a beat before he turned to Dean, who had also stopped what he was doing to listen to the conversation. With a look, they weighed their options, trying to decide whether or not to tell Mary the truth; until they came to the conclusion that, if they couldn't trust her, who could they trust?

"Because silver's the only thing that kills them," Dean said at once.

Mary threw her head back in shock, gaping slightly before saying. "I'm sorry.  _Kill_?"

"We told you we were hunters," Sam went on, and he could hear the clattering stop as Merlin, who Mary had given one of her husband's old plaid shirts, Arthur, and the Doctor turned their eyes on them. "But we don't hunt animals."

"This thing that's got your daughter, it's a Shape Shifter," Dean explained, stepping closer to stand next to his brother.

Mary looked between them with wide eyes for a long pause, until finally she let out another laugh. "You're insane," she decided. "I let insane people into my house."

Sam let out a deep sigh and turned to the others. "You guys mind giving us a sec?"

The Doctor nodded and picked up the pack of silver. "We'll wait outside," he said, and the three shuffled out of the kitchen and disappeared through the front door. Sam clocked the defensive look in Mary's eyes as they left, and she pressed her back closer to the counter to make more space between herself and the Winchesters.

"We're not crazy," Sam reassured her.

"We're gonna get Hannah back," Dean said. "We promise, but there's somethin' you gotta know." He licked his lips and shook his head in thought. "She was taken, but it wasn't last night. We don't know when it was—couldda been days."

"What?" Mary said. "What are you talking about? She was here! She was here last night. You  _saw_  her."

"That wasn't her," Sam told her sympathetically. "It was the Shifter. For some reason, it wanted to keep tabs on you."

"Why?"

Dean and Sam looked at each other again.

"We don't know," Dean lied, turning his gaze back on Mary.

"No, no. I  _know_  my daughter," Mary tried to convince them, her curls bouncing as she shook her head fervently.

"I know it must have seemed that way," Sam told her. "But these things can take memories. Kinda like a download."

He took a step closer as he spoke, and Mary reached into the sink behind her and pulled out a sharp knife. She held it warningly towards Sam, and his heart dropped into his stomach as he stepped back and raised his hands in surrender. Behind him, Dean froze on the spot, not sure what to do. He'd seen a weapon pulled on Sam countless times, but how could jump to defense when the person holding the knife was his own mother?

"You're crazy," Mary said, waving the knife between them. "Both of you. I knew letting you stay here was a bad idea." She tightened her jaw, trying to hold back her emotions. "You took her, didn't you?"

"What? No!" Sam said.

Mary nodded decisively. "That's why you were in such a hurry to leave this morning, wasn't it? Is that how you took the over girls, too?"

"We didn't take any girls!" Dean said, his voice pleading.

"We wouldn't do anything to hurt you," said Sam earnestly.

"Oh, yeah?" Mary spat. "Why's that? Why should I believe you?"

"Because we're—" Dean started, but he stopped abruptly and took in a heavy breath. After a moment, he decided to go on. "We're your kids."

Mary lowered the knife infinitesimally, looking at them with a mixture of wonder, bewilderment, and fury in her eyes. "What?" was all she could say.

"None of this," Dean said, emotion in his voice as he gestured around vaguely. "None of it was supposed to happen. Or maybe it was—I dunno. But, what I do know is, your name is Mary Winchester . . . And we're your sons." He let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "Come on, you had to notice. Hannah and Sam are practically identical, and she acts just like me." He shook his head. "Maybe she might'a been our little sister if things were different."

Mary shook her head, not wanting to believe Dean's words, but she couldn't stop her curiosity. "What do you mean, different?"

Sam looked at his brother, silently begging Dean to let him field this one. After all, it was his story to tell. Dean's adam's apple spasmed as he swallowed, but he stepped aside, and Sam looked back at Mary.

"If you hadn't died," he told her, his voice quieter than he'd intended. "That fire you told us about—the one here, when a mother and baby died? That was you."

He couldn't read Mary's expression, but she appeared to be listening, so he chanced another step forward and was relieved when she didn't immediately repel from him.

"You were killed by a demon, trying to protect me," he continued with a gesture of his hands. He found his voice was shaking. "It found me because you made a deal with it before me and Dean were born—because it went after Dad. And everything that it put me through—and Dean through."

He shook his head and, despite the tears welling in his eyes, he smiled genuinely. "But it's okay," he said with a half-laugh. "It's almost over now. I don't blame you."

Mary stared at him for a long time, thinking this information through. It seemed as though they stood there for an eternity, and Sam could practically hear his heart pounding, and he thought he heard Dean's, too, beating swiftly in tandem.

For the briefest moment, he allowed himself to hope beyond hope that he'd gotten through to Mary—that she believed him . . .

But the callousness returned to her eyes, and she leveled the knife again.

"Get out of my house," she warned. "Get out now, or I'll call the police. And don't you dare come back here ever again."

Sam's heart shattered into a million pieces. His entire body ached, worse than it ever had during the course of the trials, and he felt as though he was going to vomit. His jaw quivered as he looked back at Dean for support, but Dean's mouth was closed rigidly, and Sam saw a tear escape from him.

Sam returned his eyes to Mary, his mind going blank with more ideas on how to convince her. There was only one more thing he could try:

"Mom," he managed to say passed the lump in his throat, but this only enraged Mary.

"I said, get the Hell out!" she yelled fiercely, repositioning the knife in her hand. "Stay away from me, and stay the Hell away from my daughter!"

Sam couldn't move. His legs felt like weights, but Dean padded closer to him and placed one hand between Sam's shoulder blades and the other on his heart, trying to coax Sam towards the exit. Sam leaned on him like Dean was a rock.

"C'mon, Sammy," he said in a reluctant near-whisper, and his expression was etched with pain. "Come on."

Sam let his brother lead him towards the door and, just before they left the kitchen, Sam took one last glance over his shoulder at Mary, whose hands were shaking slightly, but she stood defiant.

* * *

Merlin watched as people up and down the block tucked themselves back into their homes, and he realized it must have been close to curfew time. He wondered how long it would take before armored vehicles rolled down the road, and he was just about to voice his concerns to Arthur when he noticed the Doctor pointing his sonic screwdriver up to a window on the second floor of the house. One of his eyes was screwed shut for spatial accuracy and he peered through the open eye with immense concentration. The green tip of the sonic was blinking steadily.

"Doctor?" Merlin wondered, putting his anger at the Time Lord aside for the time being. "What is it?"

The Doctor dropped his arm and looked at Merlin and Arthur. "The sonic—it's picking up some background particles. White noise." He looked at the device again. "I can't quite get a read on them, but they're the same as back in the manor."

Merlin raised a brow. "What does that mean?"

"No idea," the Doctor confessed. "But it's only happening when I point it at that window. Look." He waved the sonic around the perimeter of the house, and the light stayed steady; however, it flashed again when he reached the window.

"I think I may have a theory about it," the Doctor told them. "In the manor, let's say the sonic picked up background particles from Margaret Germaine's murder. It wasn't just the house that was copied and pasted, but the murder itself." He nodded towards the window again. "Maybe an event happened here, too—same as it happened in our universe? Like an Easter Egg . . ."

"What's an Easter Egg?" Arthur asked.

"It's a hidden message," the Doctor explained.

Merlin didn't like the sound of that. "A hidden message saying what?"

Before the Doctor could answer, there was commotion from inside, and the three men turned their heads towards the kitchen window at the sounds of the shouting. Momentarily, the front door opened Dean and Sam sulked across the front lawn towards them.

"Sam?" Merlin asked empathetically, wondering about the expression on Sam's face.

"We good to go?" Dean asked, not allowing Sam room to respond. Merlin noticed his voice was stronger than it needed to be, almost as though it was forced.

The Doctor pocketed the sonic. "The Pathway awaits," he said, and the group started down the block.

As Merlin walked side by side with Arthur, he noticed Sam had lingered behind a few steps, and he kept looking behind him at the glow of the house. Merlin wondered what had happened inside, but decided not to ask. He above all knew that every person was entitled to his or her secrets, but he couldn't help but to ponder. The toll of the life the Winchesters lead weighed down on Sam, at it appeared to have finally run him into the ground, which worried Merlin. He'd always thought that Dean was born for this life, but Sam was born because of it; Merlin hoped it wouldn't kill him, too.


	12. Chapter 12

Dean tossed the backpack of silverware over the ticket turnstile before jumping over after it, and Merlin and the rest of the group followed in suit. Merlin landed cleanly on his feet for once and straightened himself out, and then took a good look around the underground station. The platform was just like any other: gray concrete and tiled walls, advertisements covered in graffiti, a vendor's stand selling stale snacks and dirty magazines, and the overwhelming stench of urine and gasoline; only, it was completely desolate, even for that time of night. Merlin knew the city had forbade anyone from entering the Pathway, and he didn't know much about this underground system, but he expected a homeless wanderer to sneak in somehow—or at least a rodent.

Sam made his way to a vending stand midway between the turnstiles and the tracks, and he plucked out a map of the Pathway. He looked behind him and brandished it to the others.

"Should be a help," he said, and his brother made his way up to Sam and read the map over his shoulder. The Doctor, too, picked up another map and unfolded it, and the three began to mutter about the multicolored lines.

Merlin was still preoccupied looking around the platform, and there was a growing sensation of dread building in his gut. Arthur abandoned his interest in the others' conversation when he saw the concerned expression about the warlock.

"Merlin?" he asked dubiously.

"I don't even see an insect," Merlin told him, not bothering to explain his train of thought.

Arthur glared at the thick walls. "Do you  _expect_  them to get in?"

"The entrance to the Pathway is wide open," Merlin told him. "Any creature could get in. They'd just have to crawl down the tunnel."

Arthur was squinting his eyes, as though he didn't quite understand what made this fact so significant. "Perhaps this Shifter has been scaring them off."

Merlin shook his head quickly. Arthur was wrong; it was more than that. I felt as though it were designed for them to be the only ones down there. It was a trap or a trick, or something was leading them towards it. Whatever it was, his magic was bubbling under his skin, and he could not deny his gut. They had to get out of there. He turned his head swiftly towards where the others stood.

"Doctor—"

There was a sudden deafening sound from above them. It made the ground rumble and the concrete burst, causing dust to fly in violent swirls; and, all at once, a wall of fire tumbled down the entrance from which they came, taking down more of the tiled tunnel in its wake.

"Down, down, down!" Dean was shouting congruently, and he, Sam, and the Doctor jumped off the platform and into the gap of the tracks.

Thinking quickly, Merlin knew he and Arthur were too far away to make it there, so he gripped Arthur's shirt unceremoniously and pulled him in close. Merlin shielded himself and Arthur with his arm, his palm spread out, and the oncoming explosion seemed to hit an invisible bubble around them. Meanwhile, the flames roared over the Doctor and the Winchesters' heads as they huddled together for protection.

It was over just as quickly as it started, and Merlin straightened out to look at the scene. It was almost completely dark now, expect for the light provided by the emergency floodlights on the walls. Loose chunks of wall and gravel were settling on the entranceway, and the walls that were still standing and the floor were charred black. The train tunnels on one side of the platform had caved in but, Merlin noticed with mounting apprehension, that the tunnels opposite them were not touched. He glanced at Arthur, and Arthur nodded, silently thanking him and telling him he was unscathed.

The Doctor's head popped up from beneath the gap.

"Everyone alright? Head count! Dean?" he shouted, and Dean and Sam silhouettes stood up next to him, groaning and shaking the buzzing from their heads.

"Peachy," Dean confirmed. "Sam?"

Sam was contorting his face, attempting to get feeling back in his skin after it had been exposed to so much heat. "Uh,  _yeah_ ," he answered.

"Merlin? Arthur?" the Doctor called.

"Fine," said Arthur.

"Yeah," answered Merlin at the same moment.

"What the Hell was that?" Arthur asked, eyeing the rubble.

"Gotta be a trap," Dean said. "Whoever's down here, doesn't want us to get out."

"Or they're  _leading_  us to it," Merlin voiced.

"That's a good thought," answered Dean. "You think it's whoever's runnin' this game?"

Sam snorted. "Almost definitely."

"In any event, I suppose there's only one way to go," the Doctor replied, hitting a pin light against his palm until it flickered on. He shined it down the dark tunnel, but it wasn't enough to cause any real light. "At least until the next platform."

Dean and Sam reached into their pockets and produced small flashlights of their own. Sam looked at Merlin as he and Arthur walked over, and tossed a torch into Merlin's hand.

"Here," he said, not reacting when Merlin curiously looked into the bulb side of the flashlight before accidentally hitting the button and quickly recoiling at the brightness. "Now we all got one."

"No," said Merlin, throwing the light back down to Sam. "You might need it. I can manage."

Sam shrugged and looked back down at the map clutched in his hands. "Alright, well, since those tunnels aren't an option anymore," he said, nodding towards the tracks behind them. "There are three we can take. Two incoming and one outgoing." He traced the lines with the tip of his finger as he looked. "Looks like, if we all walk in the same direction, all the tracks meet up again on the next platform."

"Then we Scooby-Doo it," Dean decided.

"Agreed," said the Doctor. "Dean and Sam, you take that tunnel there. Merlin—"

"I'm with Arthur," he said scathingly, and the Doctor shot him a morose look but didn't argue.

"Yes," he said. "Take the outgoing tunnel on the other side of the platform. I'll take the second incoming."

Dean unzipped the backpack and offered the contents to the rest of the group. "Pick your damage," he told them, and they each took a small arsenal of silver forks and knives before Dean swung the pack over his shoulder and they made for their separate tunnels.

* * *

The cargo hold was a maze of giant containers, their colors deluded by slime and years of changing weather, some stacked one on top of the other to save space. The narrow pathways between the containers were completely dark, save for the small beam of a flashlight that bobbed up and down as it advanced through the labyrinth.

"Remember, we're looking for container E45Q—"

"—7846," Cas finished with a sigh. He'd memorized the serial number the first time Sherlock had shown it to him; Sherlock didn't have to keep reminding him.

"Yes," Sherlock said, stopping at an intersection in the maze and shining his light down one of the paths.

"There must be hundreds of containers here, Sherlock," Cas told him, recalling the view from when they had stood on top of one of the boxes and looked out into the abandoned sea of color and darkness.

"We had better keep searching, then," Sherlock told him, his breath fogging as he craned his neck to look at the angel. Castiel looked less than confident in their search. "See what you can find," Sherlock continued, picking a route and starting on it. "I'll go in this direction."

Cas indented his brow, looking after Sherlock for a few steps before moving to follow him.

The detective wheeled around to face him, but did not stop walking. "And you go in  _another_ ," he spelled out, halting Castiel.

"Oh," Cas said, unsurely looking around for which direction to go in. "Of course. I'll just—"

But when he looked back, Sherlock had already turned a corner.

* * *

The tunnel proved to be even darker than the platform, with only faint red and blue lights guiding their way through the snaking darkness. Merlin held his palm outright, a lick of flames held in the middle, and it cast a glow around himself and Arthur. It was enough to see the iron tracks beneath them so they wouldn't trip, but it also caused all shadows to grow into monstrosities on the walls.

At one point, Merlin felt his heart leap into his chest when he saw a foreign shadow next to them, and Arthur jumped forward with the silver plated cake knife in defense, but then rolled his eyes when a squeaking noise bounced off the concrete and the frightened mouse scurried away. Despite Arthur's name calling, Merlin felt better. It was good to see other forms of life. It made him hope the controller of this universe had lost sight of them.

The tunnel they had been assigned was the shortest distance to the next platform, since there were no forks in the tracks and minimal turns; and Merlin could make out the yellow light at the end when the sound of footsteps resonated behind them. He looked over his shoulder, and the first thing he saw was a tiny beam of light cutting through in the black. He noted Arthur's fist tighten around his weapon.

"Who's there?" Arthur asked, his voice echoing around them, and there was a slight pause that made Arthur level his knife. It was no sword, but Merlin had no doubt that Arthur could cause significant damage with it.

The beam of light grew closer, and suddenly Merlin heard a familiar voice say, "Guys? That you?"

Sam appeared in the glow of the flame, and Arthur relaxed slightly.

"I thought you'd gone with Dean," the King said, relief in his tone.

"Yeah, there was a split in the tracks," Sam explained with a handsome smile. "I followed one. He got the other."

Merlin narrowed his eyes at Sam and, maybe it was just his imagination, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. In the flickering half-light, it certainly looked like Sam, right down the mole on his nose, and he was wearing Sam's jacket, but Merlin couldn't help but feel paranoid.

"The exit isn't far," Arthur told him, gesturing back to the circle of light. "We'll meet the others again shortly, granted they haven't found anything."

"You haven't found something, have you, Sam?" Merlin asked peculiarly.

Sam was still smiling. "No," he said. "Maybe the Shifter's hiding out in one of the other tunnels. C'mon, let's get out of here."

Arthur began to walk again, but Merlin quickly stuck his free arm out, stopping him. He kept his eyes on Sam.

"Have you still got that silver on you?" Merlin questioned.

Sam's smile flickered only slightly.

"Yeah," he said after a miniscule beat. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Show me."

Sam let out a chuckle, and then shot a belittling look to Merlin. "Dude, seriously?"

"Go on," Merlin insisted. "Show us. Place it to your skin."

Sam looked at him for a long moment as though it had just dawned on him that Merlin was being serious.

Now Arthur was eyeing him suspiciously. "Here," he said, flipping his knife around and offering the handle to Sam. "I'll make it easy for you."

Sam looked down at the knife and licked his lips. "Yeah," he said, a hint of uncertainty in his tone. "Yeah, okay. No problem. Thanks for the trust, you guys."

As he reached out for the knife, a loud snarling sound reached their ears, coming from the platform. They all turned in the direction of the light until the echoes of dripping water and Merlin's heart in his ears replaced the fading sound.

"What on Earth was that?" Arthur breathed.

"Come on," Sam told them, and he bolted off towards the platform. Merlin and Arthur shared a glance before following after him.

* * *

Dean turned a bend in the tunnel, when suddenly he bumped into something solid. He immediately went on the defense, holding up his knife in preparation for a fight, when the shaky beam of his flashlight met a familiar face.

"Dammit, Doc!" he shouted, allowing himself to breathe. "Don't  _do_  that!"

"Me?" the Doctor reposed. "You're the one who stepped on my foot."

Dean sighed, but instead of apologizing, he grabbed the Doctor's wrist and forced back his sleeves. In one quick motion, he cut a shallow line into the Doctor's milky flesh, and he was satisfied when he was met with nothing but crimson.

The Doctor, who had been protesting the whole time, brought his wrist to his lips and started sucking at the wound. "Ow!" he complained. "That  _hurt_."

"Sorry," Dean said finally. "Standard check." He then rolled up his own sleeve and cut a line into the back of his arm and showed it to the Doctor.

The Doctor looked at him in exasperation. "I believed you were you," he insisted.

"Well, you shouldn't of," Dean told him.

"Why not?" the Doctor asked with a grin. "No one can exactly duplicate  _your_  charm, can they?"

Dean shot him an unamused look, correctly assuming that it wasn't a compliment.

"Now that that's settled," the Doctor said, "come along. According to the map, the next platform's not far. Let's hope the others found something. The sooner we reach Clara, the better." He then looked over Dean's shoulder, noticing the lack of a gigantic presence.

"Where's your brother?"

"We split up," Dean said simply. "Thought we'd cover more ground that way."

The Doctor looked hesitant. "You're sure that's wise?"

"Sam's a professional," Dean insisted, a certain defensiveness to his tone, and the two followed the map to the next platform.

They walked in silence for a while, Dean listening out for any noises as the Doctor soniced the walls every now and again. The humming of the device lulled Dean into his thoughts, most of them concerning the world outside. The Doctor kept saying it wasn't real, that it was built just for them, and Dean couldn't help but wonder what would happen to it when they left. Would it go away? Would it kill Mary and everyone else? It certainly begged the question: Why were they risking their lives saving these already doomed girls? They should have put their efforts into helping Sherlock and Cas find the door to the next level.

Dean let out a breath. Did he even  _want_  to find the door?

"You're being awfully quiet," the Doctor said, pulling Dean out of his thoughts.

"Just thinkin'," Dean said after a beat.

"Care to share?"

Dean didn't, but he figured he should say something. "This Sherlock guy," he decided on. "How long have you known him?"

"Not long," the Doctor answered honestly. "But long enough to know he's trustworthy—well, I say  _trustworthy_. He's more curious than anything. He'll stop at nothing to get us out of here—more for his own peace of mind than our safety. Sometimes that's better . . ." The Doctor shined his torch about the moist walls. "And, if you don't trust in him, trust your friend, Castiel."

Dean let out a sigh at the mention of Cas, but quickly corrected himself. The Doctor didn't need to know about his recent lack of trust in the angel, especially since they were all depending on him to get them out of there.

"Yeah, I'm surprised you two know each other," Dean said casually. "You don't really seem like the god-fearing, angel-praying type."

The Doctor chuckled. "Angels and gods, I'm not so sure," he said, musing. "You may call them angels, but my people called them the Eternals—beings that could live outside time and space. They were here even before the Time Lords, and they were our strongest allies during the War."

Dean assumed he meant the Time War—the same war that was still raging, only now it was on Earth. That could only mean one thing.

"You mean before you ended it?" Dean ventured.

The Doctor nodded, and Dean saw a haunted look in his eyes in the beam of his flashlight. It was a look he'd sometimes see on his father after a particularly bad hunt—the same look he now wore. Dean knew a soldier when he saw one.

"You regret it?" he guessed.

The Doctor looked forward, giving most of his attention to the path ahead. The light from the next platform was like a beacon in the distance now. "Sometimes," he allowed.

"Like now?" Dean shook his head. "Doc, look what's goin' on out there. America's a dictatorship— _and_  a war zone. The rest of the Earth is in the crapper, and who knows how many other planets out there are just like it—or worse! You ask me, you did the right thing."

The Doctor sighed heavily. "I know," he admitted, stopping to look at Dean. Dean gave him his full attention, knowing how rare it was for the Doctor to open up. "But sometimes I wonder. The Daleks always survive," he continued. "Every time. But now . . . The Time Lords are alive. My friends, my family, my home." He smiled sadly. "It makes you think, is all."

As Dean listened, all he could think of was his parents, alive in the world above his head. The same could have been true for Bobby, Jo, Ellen, and anyone else who made the mistake of getting close to him and his brother—everyone who died in their name. He thought of the innocent people Crowley was targeting—Sarah, Jenny Klein, and Tommy. Would they still be alive, or would they have died the first time if the Winchesters weren't around to save them?

Then Dean thought of the Apocalypse and all those faceless, nameless everyones they saved, most of whom he'd never meet. He couldn't help but wonder, if his family could still be alive and happy, was it all really worth it?

"Yeah," he told the Doctor thoughtfully. "Ya know, I get it."

The Doctor gave him the smallest of smiles. "I know you do," he said. "You have a good heart, Dean Winchester. I may not always agree with you methods and, you may not think so, but you  _do_  have a heart." The Doctor leaned in and pressed one finger into Dean's chest, almost as though he wanted to show Dean exactly where the muscle was located. "And it's definitely in the right place."

Dean smirked a little awkwardly. "I'm touched," he said sarcastically, and the Doctor let it slide. He began walking again, and Dean followed.

"So, you and Clara," Dean probed, changing the subject to something lighter. "Are you two, uh—you know?"

The Doctor knitted his brows. "Know? Know what?" he asked innocently, but genuinely.

Dean licked his lips. He'd seen virgins less naïve. "You  _know_ ," he said again with more emphasis.

"Ah," the Doctor said, his eyes widening. "Right. Yes, of course." He tapped the tip of his nose with this index finger a few times before pointing at Dean. Then his eyebrows furrowed again. "No, still not getting it."

Dean let out a sigh and rolled his eyes. "Are you guys like, an item?" he spelled it out.

Finally, realization was written over the Doctor's face, and then he wrinkled his nose. "No! Definitely not!  _Eugh_." He shivered and stuck his tongue out like he was an eight year old who still believed girls have cooties. Suddenly, his eyes flashed in consideration. "Why?" he asked, trying to sound nonchalant. "Has she said anything?"

Dean was just about to answer when his flashlight beam fell on a lump up ahead. It was a man who appeared to be unconscious—a large man.

"Sam?" he called in a panic and rushed to his brother's side. He flipped Sam over on his back, inspecting the gash on his forehead. Sam was also stripped of his jacket. "Sam! Sammy, can you hear me?"

The Doctor knelt down to look at Sam, too. "He's alive," he told Dean and, as though to prove him right, Sam gasped awake. Dean sat back to give him some room, but held his palms out for support.

"What the Hell happened?" Sam said after catching his breath, staring wildly around as though he expected to be attacked again. His eyes lit up as the memory came back to him. "Dean, it was the Shifter. He's here."

"Where?" Dean asked.

Sam looked around in the darkness again, breathing heavily and swallowing hard. His eyes eventually met the Doctor's.

"Where's Merlin?"

* * *

The echoes of their hurried footsteps ceased, and Merlin heard his breath coming out ragged, as he looked at the platform above the tracks he was standing on. He side glanced at Sam, who, Merlin kept reminding himself, was in much worse condition than him, and noticed that the Winchester's breaths were coming in and out easily. However, he didn't have much time to think on it.

"Whatever made that noise, it's long gone," Arthur said, heaving himself up onto the platform before reaching down and offering a hand to Merlin.

"Or it was never here in the first place," Sam said with a grunt as he lifted himself, too. "These tunnels are empty, remember? The sound couldda come from anywhere down the line."

"Yes, maybe," agreed Arthur as he drifted towards the concession stand and plucked a small snack bag off the shelves. Merlin watched him with mild curiosity as the bag crinkled in Arthur's hand. "Pretzels," the King said, getting a feel for the new word. "It says it's food. I wonder if—"

When he turned to look at Merlin, the smile on his face quickly hardened and his eyes glared at something behind Merlin. He dropped the bag and instinctually reached to his side, only to come up empty. "Merlin!" he yelled instead, and Merlin spun around to find Sam, brandishing his demon knife threateningly in his hand. There was a dark look on his face as their eyes met, and Merlin was certain this man was not his friend.

Footsteps stampeded down the tunnel, and out of the darkened archway appeared three forms: the Doctor, Dean, and a worn out looking Sam, who apparently had enough energy left to point towards the other Sam and shout Merlin's name alarmingly.

As the Shifter charged, Merlin held out his palm, and the knife clattered to the ground with a flash of golden eyes. The Shifter stood paralyzed, sputtering under the effort it took to breathe, and Merlin spread out his fingers and waved his palm to the concrete wall. As though attached to it by an invisible tether, the Shifter's body followed the movement, and his back was pressed hard against the wall with a soft thud.

As Merlin pinned the Shifter, the real Sam and Dean got right up in the man's face. Sam held his knife to the Shifter's throat, and red pricks of blood began oozing from his neck. His pale flesh smoked and sizzled as he cowarded and retracted closer to the wall.

"Where are the girls?" Dean demanded.

"Girls? What girls?" the Shifter tried, holding his hands up in surrender. His voice was less like Sam's now—more terrified. Sam shoved the knife closer to his skin, and he let out a yelp and started to tremble. "Alright, alright! I know about the girls! But I don't know where they are, I  _swear_!"

"Yeah, right," Sam said in a threatening voice, grasping on to the collar of the Shifter's jacket to unnerve him further. "You've been kidnapping them and you don't know where you're hiding them?"

"Me? Kidnapping? No!" the Shifter promised. "There are these two guys hiding out down here, too.  _They've_  been taking the girls, not me. I stumbled on them one day, and they—they knew what I was. They said, as long as I keep my mouth shut, they'd let me take a look at the girls they bring in—so I could shift into them and do whatever I want."

"Like rob banks?" Sam said, and the Shifter nodded feverishly.

"Yeah, yeah!" he said. "But I don't know where they are. They move around. They're keepin' them somewhere in the Pathway, but they blindfolded me every time they took me there, okay?"

"Why were you in Mary Bryant's house?" Dean interrogated.

"I dunno—I wasn't gonna hurt her!" was the answer. "Her daughter got taken and, I dunno—I was told to just watch Mary. Keep an eye on her."

"Told by who?" asked Dean.

"I dunno, man! Some lady!"

The Doctor stepped forward immediately. " _What_  lady?"

"I don't  _know_! Some chick," the Shifter told them. "She gave me the blueprints of all the bank vaults in town, alright? I didn't ask questions!"

Dean nodded, accepting this as the truth. "Alright, he doesn't know anythin' else," he said, nodding to Sam. "Cut 'im loose."

Sam nodded his understanding, and Merlin noted a savage glint in Sam's eyes as he drew back the silver knife, prepared to give a deadly blow to the heart.

"No,  _Sam_!" the Doctor attempted to stop him, but Sam had already thrust the blade into the Shifter, who was sputtering and gasping until his entire body slackened. Merlin lowered his palm slowly, somewhat taken by surprise at the killing.

"You didn't have to  _kill_  him!" the Doctor shouted, watching the body slump to the floor after Sam took his jacket back.

"Yeah, so he could go back to his buddies and tell 'em we're coming? No way," Dean reasoned. "You wanna get Clara back or not?"

The Doctor fell silent, but he continued to eye the dead Shifter.

"Good," Dean said, not waiting for any more objections. "Then let's get movin'. Those girls are down here somewhere." He licked his lips as he looked off at the tracks. "And we stay together this time."

* * *

There was a fluttering of wings behind Castiel, and an alarm suddenly went off in his brain. He took out his angel blade and wheeled around, expecting to find Naomi or one of her soldiers. Instead, a short, plump man with wildly curly hair was before him.

"Whoa, Castiel," he said, putting his hands up in mock surrender as a smile formed on his face. "It's just me."

Cas calmed down and lowered his blade. "Metatron," he said. "What are you doing here?"

"What am  _I_  doing here?" the scribe asked. "What are  _you_  doing here? We have a job to do, remember? Closing the Gates of Heaven, in case you've forgotten."

Cas let out a heavy sigh. "I haven't forgotten," he told him. "But Dean and Sam—they're missing. I have to get them back." He looked at Metatron apologetically. "I believe we're close," he tried. "I won't be much longer."

Metatron took a step closer to him, still grinning. "You're a terrible liar, Castiel," he said. "Don't you think Dean and Sam can get out of their own messes? What we're doing is a little bit more important!"

"They have a job to do, too," Castiel said. "With the angels in Heaven, it will be free reign on Earth for demons. They  _must_  be trapped in Hell. You know Sam is the only one who can do that now."

Metatron's smile flickered. "Cas," he said, holding out his arms to his brother. "Do you want to help Heaven or not? This is the  _only_  way to fix what you did up there."

Cas swallowed hard and looked to the ground, these words ringing in his ears.

"Look, I'm not judging," Metraton assured him. "I'm just saying. You have to help your family."

Cas looked back up at him and narrowed his eyes. "Dean and Sam are my family, too."

Metatron dropped his shoulders sympathetically. "Dean doesn't even trust you anymore."

As Castiel considered this, he turned his back to Metatron, looking around the empty cargo container. "He will," he hoped aloud, inwardly adding,  _He has to._

"Castiel—"

"Go," Cas demanded, turning back around to face the other angel. "I'll return when I can."

Metatron sighed, knowing he couldn't talk Castiel out of this, and disappeared.

* * *

There were faint voices up ahead, and Sam was almost certain that he could hear snarling, too, but it may have just been the muffled conversation reverberating against the damp walls of the sewer. They sounded male, anyway, which meant neither of them were Clara.

"Sonova—!" Dean exclaimed suddenly, following a loud clunking sound as his foot connected with something solid and cold. Both sounds earned a collective shush from the rest of the group.

Dean had kicked the object a few feet in front of the group when he almost stepped on it, and the Doctor had already jogged ahead to see what it was. He was crouched down and gingerly holding the rectangular object in his hands. It looked like a brick in the darkness.

"Someone shine a torch over here," he called in a loud whisper, and Sam obliged. He knelt down next to the Doctor and shown the light of his flashlight on the object. It was shiny and—

" _Gold_?" Arthur asked as he and Merlin caught up to the Doctor as well. "Is that something you keep down here?"

"Is it real?" Merlin asked, overriding Arthur's question.

"Seems to be," said the Doctor, and got a disgusted look out of Arthur as he sniffed it.

"Sammy," Dean said from a little ways down the tunnel. He had his own flashlight directed at a mound of gold chains, goblets, and goods.

"Crap," Sam said shortly, and stood up.

Merlin voiced the confusion of the rest of the group. "What is it?"

Dean rejoined them, pulling out his Colt from inside his jacket and saying, "That means this is no good." He replaced the gun. "What we need is one of those swords stuck in a stone." He raised a brow and looked over at Arthur. "You don't happen to have any of those on ya by any chance?"

Arthur looked repelled by the question. "Of  _course_  not!" he answered, as though the question was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. " _That_  sword must have been left behind in Avalon."

Dean and Sam exchanged looks before Dean rattled the confusion out of his head. "Okay, then."

"Do you two want to tell the rest of us what's going on, or are you just going to keep blathering?" the Doctor said as he stood up, too. "I hate blathering. Blathering is rubbish. The only one 'round here who gets to blather is me."

Dean irritably cut him off. "It's dragons."

Sam couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw Merlin's expression brighten in the light of the flashlights. "Dragons?"

"Yeah, and we don't have anythin' to kill 'em," Dean confirmed.

"That's great!" said Merlin, beaming. He was met with perplexed looks all around. "We don't need to kill them."

"What?" Dean asked. "You're right out a fairytale, man. I thought you'd be all about slaying dragons."

Merlin gave a sigh. "Just—Leave this to me."

He began walking towards the voices, but Dean grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him back around. "Kid, you can't go in there alone. You don't know how dangerous these things are."

"Kid?" Merlin retorted, offended. "You  _do_  know I'm thousands of years older than you?"

"Not today, you ain't."

The Doctor stood between them. "I have to agree with Dean," he said, catching Merlin's eyes. "You'll be torn to shreds."

Merlin chortled. "I told you, Doctor," he said. "I do not fear dragons." He shook himself out Dean's grip and sprinted down the length of the tunnel, leaving the others no choice but to follow him.

* * *

The door to the container whined loudly as it opened, and a sudden stench hit Sherlock like a wall. It was the same rancid smell as in Marcus Germaine's box of decaying animals, only now it was intensified. The smell of mortality.

Sherlock shined his torch into the cargo hold, looking at the pile of bodies before him. There must have been twenty people here, men and women alike; he noticed some of them from the Missing Persons alerts. If all of these people had been taken from the rave, he had severely miscalculated the body count.

He stepped into the container to get a better look, breathing into his coat's sleeve. He knelt down to inspect one of the bodies, a young man in his thirties who must have been dead for over a week. His flesh squirmed and burst under Sherlock's touch. He moved on to the next body, and instantly recognized him as Jonathan Williams.

_Stupid boy_ , Sherlock thought, squaring his jaw.

The next body was a blonde woman, propped up against the wall of the container, with her arms wrapped around her torso. She still had color in her face, despite her pallid eyes.

Sherlock furrowed his brow at the girl and brought his fingers to her neck to check for a pulse to satisfy himself that she was lifeless.

_Dead_ , he thought, but she was still warm and rigor mortis had not yet set in.

The light of his flashlight began to flicker, and he looked down at it in confusion. He rattled the torch around and smacked it against his palm, trying to steady the light, and it eventually followed his command.

He looked back at the blonde girl, and noticed right away that her arms were no longer hugging her stomach. Sherlock's eyes widened as his mind raced, trying to figure out how that could be, when the girl suddenly sprung to life. Her eyes were black in the torchlight as she grabbed Sherlock's wrist with unordinary strength. He could not get himself free.

As they struggled, his flashlight fell out of his grip, and it began to blink again as it rolled away.

* * *

They came to the opening of the next platform, and the five of them crouched low as they used the wall as cover. On the platform, two men had a fire going in a tin trashcan and they were laying out more gold and jewels in lines in front of them.

"There's gotta be another way around," Dean whispered to the others, looking around for another tunnel that could lead them away from the dragons. Arthur was doing the same.

"There," he said, pointing at a light down the tunnel that signified a split in the railway.

Dean was about to check it out when something caught Sam's eye; he grabbed at Dean's shirt and pulled him back against the wall.

"Wait, Dean. Look." Sam nodded towards the men above them, and the others followed his eye line. In the corner of the platform, hidden and chained to a cement beam just out of the glow of the fire, was Clara.

"Now we don't have a choice," Merlin said.

"Why isn't she moving?" Arthur asked, and Sam swallowed hard at the thought of the possibilities.

"I think she's knocked out," the Doctor finally spoke up, and there was a hint of danger in his tone. "She must have been fighting—too much for them to handle." A grin grew on his face. "That's my girl."

"But where are the dragons?" Merlin whispered, sounding thoroughly let down, Sam couldn't help but notice. He shot Merlin a look.

"What d'you mean, 'Where are the dragons?' You're lookin' at 'em," Dean said, nodding towards the men.

"What, them?" Arthur asked in disbelief. He snorted. "They look a Hell of a lot different from any dragon I've met."

Merlin's eyes were fixed on the men, and he seemed to be adjusting himself to make a break for it. "Let's just hope they abide by the same laws."

Arthur seemed just as confused as anyone. "What  _laws_?"

"Merlin?" Sam couldn't hold it in anymore. "What are you planning?"

"Trust me," Merlin asked of them, and then looked at the Doctor. "I  _will_  get Clara back. You have my word." The Doctor set his jaw and nodded sternly after a pause.

"We got your back," Dean assured him.

"Stay low," Merlin told them, and walked out into the clearing.

"Merlin?" Arthur questioned, worry in his tone.

Merlin turned around to face him, and the bravado drained from his face in that moment. "Do not think differently of me," he told Arthur. When Arthur did not respond, Merlin gave them all a beaming grin and pushed himself into platform. He started towards the dragons purposefully, catching their attention. They left their gold with a start.

Sam saw their hands redden and glow with intense heat immediately.

"He's gonna get himself killed," Sam breathed, watching the dragons storm towards Merlin. The wizard stood still and let them, and just as they were about to burn him, Merlin's eyes glowed a bright golden color and the two dragons were flung backwards and landed on the ground. They weren't down for long.

However, that didn't seem to worry Merlin.

Sam heard Merlin take in a sharp, deep breath and, when he used that breath to speak, his voice boomed throughout the small space in a voice that wasn't quite his own, and in an ancient language that Sam recognized as some form of Latin.

"What the Hell?" Dean asked, dumbfounded, from beside his brother.

Sam looked next to him at Arthur, who no longer seemed confused. His expression was set and stony.

"Well, I'll be damned," Dean said when Merlin's voice ceased. "It actually worked."

When Sam looked at the scene again, the two dragons were shaking, and genuflecting in front of Merlin. Their eyes were fixed the concrete below their knees. One spoke, and he sounded like a guilty child when he did so.

"We thought you were all dead," he said.

" _I_ thought you were just a story," said the other fearfully.

"And this is how you behave in my absence?" Merlin was saying, his voice toneless but commanding. "There was time when your kind was wise and noble. They were revered. What have you become? You've lowered yourselves to  _thieves_ —living in the bowels of the world. How many are just like you?"

"I don't—we don't know," the first said, quaking. "We don't associate with others. It's just us."

He sounded as though he thought Merlin would strike him at any moment, but Merlin just stood there, fixing them with a hard stare.

"Where are the girls you took?" he asked dryly.

"In there," one of the men said, pointing to a solid metal door along the wall of the platform. "They're locked up."

"Why did you take them?"

"We were told to," said the second dragon. "There was a woman, she offered us gold to hold them here."

Merlin glanced back at the door, and then eyed the dragons with contempt. "Go now," he said after some time, and nodded towards the gold. "Leave your spoils. And leave Clara."

The two nodded quickly, but did not meet his eyes.

"And, if you should meet more of your kind, tell them that one last Dragonlord is among you," Merlin warned them. "And I will no longer stand for this!"

They nodded even faster this time.

" _Go_ ," Merlin bid them again, but they seemed too afraid to move. Once more, for only a brief word, Merlin commanded them in the ancient tongue; and the two dragons scrambled to their feet and bolted into the shadows of the subway system.

The rest of the group came out from their hiding spot, and Merlin's wore an almost dead expression when he turned around to face them. They pulled themselves up onto the platform and went to meet him. The Doctor instantly ran to Clara, and she groaned awake as he unchained her with a wave of the sonic screwdriver.

"It's me, it's me," he assured her, helping her to her feet.

She was groggy and a bit unsteady. "Doctor?"

"Yeah," he cooed, cupping her cheeks with his palms and smiling caringly down at her. She grinned up at him. "Hello again."

"Dude!" Dean called to Merlin, letting out a laugh and clapping Merlin on the back. That seemed to set Merlin's features back into their usual expression. He let out a sigh and smiled.

Meanwhile, Sam ran straight to the door the dragons had indicated, which appeared to be some kind of broom closet. Dean was at his side quickly, looking down at the lock on the door. He pulled out his Colt and shot it off. Immediately, the door flung open and six pale and frantic looking girls shoved out.

"Come on, girls," Dean told them as he and Sam ushered them towards the Pathway's exit staircase. "Go home—come on."

In the small crowd, Hannah Bryant rushed between Sam and Dean, and the brothers gave each other a pained look from over her head, and then watched her run up the stairs and towards the moonlight.

* * *

Castiel rounded the corner to another row of containers and dropped his shoulders in dejection. Wondering if Sherlock was making any more headway, he inhaled deeply, and suddenly smelled something stale and rotten wafting towards him in the wind. He squinted his eyes as he looked around, trying to locate the source of the smell.

He walked towards it, until eventually it took him to an opened container with the identification number E45Q7846 stenciled on the side. He stepped inside, looking upon the pile of dead bodies before him. Quickly, he scanned for the man and woman he saw being taken the previous night, but they were not there. It made him wonder what, then, had become of them.

* * *

"A  _Dragonlord_?" Merlin heard Arthur suddenly boom, and for a moment he forgot if that was Arthur's ecstatic or enraged tone. However, when Merlin met the King's eyes, they were bright, and Arthur laughed. He ran to Merlin and clasped both hands on his shoulders. Merlin beamed back at him as Arthur clapped his palms on Merlin's shoulders again before releasing him.

But Merlin's legs could no longer support himself. The wobbled and he fell against the wall for support, his cheek pressing against the concrete and his hands sliding down the caked on sludge.

"Merlin!" Arthur called, putting Merlin's arm over his shoulders for support.

The Doctor left Clara, who was now sitting up and shaking away her grogginess, and crossed quickly to Merlin.

"It was just the magic," Merlin assured him before the Doctor could talk. "I should use it sparingly."

"You're not strong enough to use it like that, Merlin," the Doctor warned, surveying the dark bags under Merlin's eyes and his now pale skin. "You have to stop this."

"No!" Merlin said at once, rolling his cheek against the stone in attempt to shake his head.

"What is he talking about?" Arthur demanded, his wide eyes going from Merlin to the Doctor and back again. "Merlin?"

"Nothing, my Lord," Merlin said, trying and failing to push himself off the wall. "I'm fine."

"You can't just  _shut down_ , Merlin. You have to fight it!" the Doctor interrupted. "You're getting weaker by the moment."

When Merlin answered, it was in a yell almost as vicious as the voice he had used on the dragons. " _I don't care_!" This silenced the Doctor. Merlin released himself from Arthur and managed to wobble until he was steady again. He looked the Doctor in the eyes. "Ever since I stepped into the Crystal Cave, it has been my destiny to wait for Arthur—to live until he returns, no matter how many centuries." His coldness was leaving him, and his eyes were beginning to well up. When he spoke again, his breath hitched, and he sounded weary and older than he ever had, "But I don't want to. Not alone."

Before anyone could answer, Clara's voice echoed through the room. It sounded strange, and unlike her own. It was taunting. "Silly boy. You  _are_  alone."

Everyone turned to face her and, once she had their full attention, she blinked, and her eyes were pure black; she blinked again at they returned to normal.

"Clara," the Doctor said, forgetting Merlin and making his way to the front of the group.

"She ain't Clara, Doc," Dean said. "Not anymore."

Dean and Sam instantly reached for their weapons, and Sam produced his demon knife from his jacket pocket. He held it out threateningly.

"Ah, ah, ah," the demon sang, wagging her finger back and forth as if to scold them. "I wouldn't if I were you—not unless you want to lose  _two_  friends today."

"What do you mean, two?" the Doctor demanded.

The demon shrugged innocently. "Your Clara isn't the only one I'm shacked up with right now," she told them. "I'm possessing someone else, too."

Sam looked taken aback by this. "What? How?"

"Forget  _how_ ," Dean said, still holding his gun out. " _Who_?"

Clara smirked at them.

* * *

"Castiel, there you are," came Sherlock's voice from behind him, distracting Cas from the bodies.

"Sherlock," he said. "I found—"

However, when he turned around to face Sherlock in the entrance of the crate, he immediately saw a dark and twisted face beneath the detective's. The demon possessing Sherlock grinned catlike, and his icy blue eyes turned a solid black.

Cas gripped his angel blade tighter in his fist.


	13. Chapter 13

"Get out of him," Castiel warned in a deep voice.

The demon merely gave a soft bout of laughter. "Or you'll do what?" it asked, raising a brow. "Kill me?" He spread his arms out invitingly. " _Please_. I'm all yours."

For the briefest moment, Cas' instincts kicked in, and he considered thrusting the blade through the demon's gut, until he realized that would also kill the host. As Cas thought, his eyes darted back and forth along the floor, as though the solution was written on the metal, and he soon relaxed his blade.

"Good choice," the demon praised.

Cas looked back up at him, glaring daggers. "There are other ways to stop you," he cautioned.

"Oh, yes, I'm certain you could think of something," the demon told him casually. "But that wouldn't do your friends any good. After all, they'd be stuck if you released me."

Castiel's eyes narrowed inquisitively. "What do you mean?"

" _I mean_ , Sherlock has to overcome this possession himself," it replied without any real worry in its tone.

" _You're_  the door?" Cas asked, his brow raised skeptically.

"Celeste Montgomery," the demon said with a smirk, winking and offering a hand to Castiel. "Enchanté."

Castiel didn't take the hand. "The Toymaker."

Again, the demon laughed. "That's what they call me. Do you like it? It's a little homage to a colleague of mine."

Wondering what the demon meant by  _colleague_ , Cas looked behind it towards the putrefying bodies.

"Why are you killing these people?"

"Killing?" the demon repeated, shaking Sherlock's head. "No. These are just the ones who didn't survive."

"Survive what?"

The demon shrugged as though it were obvious. "Possession, of course."

* * *

The Doctor took a few careful steps towards the demon, his palms raised to show he meant no harm. "Clara, can you hear me?" he was coaxing, looking deep into her brown eyes for a sign. "I hope you can. If you can, you've got to fight it."

"Oh, don't you ever shut up?" the demon groaned, rolling her eyes. "You really don't, do you? No. I've access to her memories. Lord, you  _really_  never shut up."

"How's about  _you_  shut up, bitch?" Dean barked, and the demon shot him a flirty smirk.

"You could always make me," it teased.

"Yeah, maybe we will," Sam warned it. "We can't kill you, but we could always exorcise you. I'm guessing that'd work for Sherlock, too, right?"

"It  _would_ ," the demon said with an innocent half-shrug. "Or maybe my boss thought of that already. Maybe she made it so any attempt to exorcise me would kill your friends dead."

"That's impossible," Dean said surely.

"Dare to risk it?" the demon challenged brightly. When no one made a move, it relaxed Clara's shoulders. "Didn't think so. Looks like your only hope is with Sherlock. Let's put that big brain of his to the test, shall we?"

"He has to win control back?" Merlin guessed, looking to Sam for confirmation. "Can he?"

"If anyone can, it's Sherlock," the Doctor assured him, his eyes still fixed on Clara.

The demon narrowed her eyes. "Are you one-hundred-percent on that? My, you certainly have a lot of faith in him."

"They say he's a genius," Sam said. "Looks like you're outmatched."

It tapped the side of Clara's temple. "Reasons and smarts, but I don't think it's a secret how bad he is at matters of the heart," it said. "I've seen more humanity in insects than in him. Do you really think he's willing to relive all those silly little  _bad_  moments? All the runaway puppies, the broken toys, the devastated hearts? I bet you a fiver he doesn't even know  _how_ , and that's the only way he's going to get through me." It winked at Sam. "We both know that, isn't that right, Sammy?"

Sam bristled, remembering his struggle against Lucifer only a few years ago. Sometimes, he had to fight that memory away—the one that contained all the memories of his life in one, the good and the bad and the worse rolled together and lived in a single instant. He'd rather die than go through that again.

"That's right, I've been filled in on all your histories." She gave an exuberated shiver. " _What_  a read!"

"Yeah, and what about your history?" Dean confronted. "Does Crowley know about your little extracurricular activity?"

The demon let out a piercing laugh. " _Crowley_? Please! That half-wit knows nothing, and it's been happening under his nose for centuries. I don't work for Crowley. I have a higher calling."

"The person in charge of the games?" the Doctor guessed.

"No," the demon told him. "She's got a boss, just like me."

"Really? Who's that?" the Doctor tried, a forced grin on his face.

The demon tilted its head at him, amused. "Does that work?"

"Hasn't yet," the Doctor admitted airily. "But I'm optimistic."

"What does your boss want from us?" Merlin piped up, getting the conversation back on course.

The demon glared at him for quick moment before pushing an easy smile back onto Clara's lips. "Want from  _you_? You've done quite enough already," it said with a dismissive wave. "There's nothing to be  _wanted_  from any of you, except your deaths. That way, Arthur won't have any ranks to fall back on."

Various expressions of shock overcame their expressions, and Sam and the others looked back at Arthur, whose entire body was tensed, but he looked just as taken aback as the rest of them.

In Sam's peripherals, the demon let out a choked laugh. "You mean, you don't know? No one's told you?"

Dean squared his jaw. "Told us what?"

When Sam looked back, the demon's eyes were filled with glee.

"Silence will fall when the Once and Future King rises."

* * *

"What silence?"

The demon grinned predatorily as Castiel asked the question. "The all-consuming silence," it said as though in a dream. "And all will be as it should have been."

Cas took a frustrated step forward. "But what does that  _mean_?" he demanded, his voice booming in the small space.

Suddenly, the smile fell from the demon's face, and it doubled over, clutching at its stomach in pain. It let out groans and, when it lifted its head to meet Cas' gaze, there was an unmistakable air of Sherlock in the eyes.

Cas stopped abruptly—he even stopped breathing—as he looked on at Sherlock, seeing a rare fear in the detective's expression. However, after the briefest of moments, the face twisted again, and the demon stood up straight and threw its head back in immense laughter.

"Oh, that  _is_  a memory, Sherlock," it taunted out loud. "But not quite enough to get passed me."

"He's fighting," Cas said, strengthening his resolve.

The demon seemed at ease again. "Yes, very hard," it said. "But this still could take awhile. You can go, if you so wish. After all,  _he'd_ probably leave you flat if the tables were turned."

Cas shook his head in disbelief. "No," he told the demon. "Sherlock Holmes is my friend."

The demon gave him a belittling look. "Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends," it said. "Not anymore, anyway."

Cas tightened his jaw. He knew he shouldn't take advantage of the situation, but he couldn't help himself. "Why not?" he asked hurriedly, like he was afraid of getting caught.

The demon leaned in, as though about to tell a secret. "He left him flat."

* * *

"Honestly, I don't see why any of you would  _want_  to get out of this alive, anyway," the demon spoke through Clara as it wove its way between them, inspecting each of them in turn. "Really,  _what_  exactly do you have to get back to? Everyone you love is dead—or dying. You're fighting battles none of you could possibly win in the end.  _What_  is the attraction of getting back to that?"

It found its way in front of Sam, looking up at him with genuine eyes. "Don't you deserve some rest, too? You don't have to be the hero here, you know," it said, shaking its head with conviction. "You all have what you've always wanted—a second chance at happiness, if not for yourselves, than for your loved ones."

She looked at Merlin. "You have your friend back."

Next, she turned to the Doctor. "All your regrets have been erased."

Finally, she darted her eyes between Sam and Dean. "Your family is alive. What more could you possibly ask for?"

Sam met her eyes, nodding softly like she was getting through to him—like she was making sense.

"Huh," Sam breathed, casting a stray look at his brother. "You know, you're right."

There was a beat where the demon smiled warmly, but it ended when Sam quickly put his knife across Clara's throat, inciting both Dean and the Doctor to step forward and call his name. With his free hand, he grabbed the demon by the shoulder and spun their bodies around, forcing her in Merlin's direction.

"Merlin, hold her!" Sam yelled, and appreciated that Merlin didn't even hesitate before putting his spread out hand over Clara's head and making his eyes flash gold. Sam had a feeling Merlin was only exhibiting enough magic for the demon inside not to attack Sam, but he didn't know what Merlin would do if Sam moved to plunge the knife into Clara's heart. He locked eyes with the wizard for a quick moment and, from the look on Merlin's face, it seemed he didn't know what he would do either.

"Oh, I'm not going anywhere, honey," the demon said. "But if you kill me, your pretty little friend goes down, remember? The detective, too. And you're stuck here for the rest of your miserable little lives." She gave him a sly smirk. "Go ahead, Sammy. We're  _all_  waiting to see what else you can screw up."

"Sammy," Dean said from behind him, taking another step forward and raising his palms slightly. "C'mon, Sam. Think about what you're doin'."

Sam didn't take his eyes off the demon as he took in heavy breaths. "She's a  _demon_ , Dean."

"Yeah," Dean allowed. "But look who it's ridin'. That's  _Clara_ , Sam. She's our friend. Look, just give Sherlock a chance. Maybe—"

"Maybe what?" Sam bellowed. "How do we really know it'll work on Clara if Sherlock takes over—by some friggin'  _miracle_? The demon could be lying."

"Yeah, Dean, I could be lying," it goaded.

"Shut up!" Sam yelled, pushing the knife in closer to her flesh, making drops of red trickle down. His next words were directed at Dean. "We could end this right now, Dean—and everyone will live. Mom, Dad— _everybody_."

"Sam, please," the Doctor said, his desperate tones not lost on Sam. "This is a moment of weakness. It's tempting—I know. But you have to listen. It's not your mother out there. You're parents didn't have a life before we got here and, as soon as we leave, it will all collapse. Anyone you love who might be out there—they aren't real. But Clara _is_.  _Please_ , Sam. Let her go."

"Listen to the Doc, Sammy," Dean coaxed.

Sam flared his nostrils and tightened his jaw, staring menacingly at Clara. He didn't know what to think.

* * *

The demon placed its hand to its temple, shaking its head slightly as though trying to rid itself of a headache; and, for a moment, its eyes flickered back to Sherlock.

"No," the demon said, and Cas got the impression that it wasn't talking to him. "No, you won't relive that one, Sherlock. It's much too grand."

The demon turned its eyes back to Castiel. "I suppose he didn't tell you why he left his friend behind? He didn't have to, you know?"

Again, his pale eyes brightened, but the look was shaken away.

"Don't interrupt, Sherlock; it's very rude. I'm trying to tell a story."

It gave Cas an exasperated glance and blew out its cheeks. "Whoever taught him manners?"

"I—" Cas stammered, not really sure where this conversation was going.

The demon waved it away. "Don't answer that. Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes. He didn't  _have_  to leave London. He  _chose_  to. Do you care to tell the angel why, Sherlock?"

Again, it fought for control, regaining it in no time, but the intervals were becoming shorter. Cas stood at the ready, no matter how helpless he felt at the moment. All he could do was look on, watching Sherlock fight this war on his own.

"No!" the demon bellowed, its eyes flashing with anger. "You  _didn't_  have to leave! Moriarty was  _dead_ , his men were disbanded. Your hoax had worked, and you could have waltzed back home in secrecy. Yet you sat in that graveyard. You watched as he stood over your grave— _begged_  you to not be dead. And what did you do then?"

The demon dug the heels of its palms into Sherlock's temple, its fingers latching into the mess of curls.

"You booked a one way ticket out of the country!"

It was screaming the words now, its eyes rapidly changing from black to ice over and over again.

"Why, Sherlock?  _Why_  did you leave?" it yelled, still grappling for power. "Because you knew—you  _knew_  they were all better off without you! Safe, able to live a life. You halted that— _you_! You never belonged there—you never did. Poor little hapless Sherlock—the outsider, the pariah. And now they're free from you. Oh, how quickly they've forgotten about you—"

The demon let out something between a cry and laugh, falling to its knees on the uneven metal floor.

"That's why he hasn't posted on his silly little blog for months," the demon continued still, despite its breath coming out labored. "They've all moved on with their lives, while you remain—still chasing your ghosts! It wouldn't matter to anyone if you just stayed  _dead_!"

There was gasp, and the black faded from Sherlock's eyes. They were now looking up at Castiel, blinking wildly and wide with uncertainty. Cas gaped, praying it would stick this time.

* * *

"Merlin, let her go," Arthur was saying. "She's just a girl."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Merlin falter slightly. "I—" he stammered, gaping at Sam—trying to figure out Sam's next move, but he did not let go.

"No," Sam decided on at last. "You said it yourself, Dean—you wish things were different. We could  _make_  it different. It's our fault they're dead, but we can bring 'em back! Everyone Crowley killed—we could give them another chance!"

"I was  _wrong_ , Sam," Dean said, and for a moment, Sam realized what he was doing. His heart sank slightly, slowly. "Mom, Dad, Bobby—everybody," Dean went on. "They're gone, and they ain't comin' back." There was something in Dean's voice, something that sounded so close to acceptance. He'd never admitted this aloud before, and neither had Sam; it was a topic they tried to avoid; because the past was something they couldn't afford to dwell upon. "But we're  _not_ , Sam. We gotta keep goin'. Do you really think any of them would want you to  _kill_  an innocent girl for them?  _Really_?" Dean was standing right next to Sam now, holding out his hand for the weapon.

Sam could hear his heart beating in his chest, every atom of him wanting to end this now. His eyes were searching Clara's skewed face, trying to look for a reason to kill her—to undo everything he'd ever done wrong. To bring everyone he'd ever cared for back.

He looked behind Clara at Merlin, who was looking at him with wide eyes; and, it was strange, but Sam was sure he saw a hint of begging on Merlin's expression—like he wanted Sam to do it.

"C'mon, Sammy, gimmie the knife," Dean said, flexing his fingers. "You know the Doc's right. They're not real. Now, you and me, we're gonna get back home and, believe me, we're gonna make sure all those sons of bitches pay but, right now, you gotta let it go. We can't let 'em win, Sam. Not this time."

* * *

"Castiel," Sherlock breathed, his entire body visibly vibrating. He felt like his head was on fire. "I've contained it. What do I do?"

"Expel it," Cas urged him, daring not to step too close. "Let it out, Sherlock!"

"But it will escape," Sherlock protested, despite the fact that it was difficult to speak.

"You  _have_  to," Cas told him, nearly pleading. "Sherlock . . ."

Sherlock's grievous eyes darted to the blade still in Castiel's grip, but he could not ask the question on his mind. He was too selfish to die—he always had been.

He let out a loud, long shout that was soon muffled by the pillar of black smoke forcing its way up his throat. Soon, it was gone, and the smoke whirled around Cas and flew out of the open container door. Sherlock drank in boats of stale air, and he would have fallen over had Cas not dropped his blade and rushed to his side.

Sherlock looked at the angel in a haze, trying to will all his dulled senses back to sharpness, and Castiel gave him a proud smile.

* * *

"Sammy."

Sam took a look at himself, at the blade in his fist, at the sneering face before him; and, before he could change his mind, he handed the knife off to Dean, who grabbed it swiftly. As soon as Sam released the handle, he felt like a weight had been lifted from him, and it was slightly hard to stand steadily. As a fresh wave of guilt washed over him, he felt a headache blossom in the forefront of his mind, and it was an effort to keep his head up.

At the same moment as Sam let go of the knife, Merlin let go of Clara, and her body tensed up almost immediately. Her head snapped back, allowing the demon smoke to escape and snake its way up the stairwell towards the city above. Sam stumbled backward slightly in the violent blast of air the smoke caused, but it was soon gone and Clara's body was wavering before him.

The Doctor was with her in a second, letting her fall forward into his chest. He held her upright until she regained use of her limbs.

"What?" she said groggily, blinking away her disorientation. "Doctor? What happened? Where are we?"

She wasn't awake during it, Sam realized. She would never remember; and this made Sam feel even worse. As Clara's gaze flashed around their surroundings, it met Sam's for a brief moment, and he found himself looking away. He felt sick, because she had a right to know what he'd done.

She had a right to hate him.

"Shh," the Doctor told her, stroking her hair tenderly. "You're fine. I've got ya."

Sam locked eyes with Merlin, who was looking just as guilty as Sam did at the moment. He shouldn't have, as far as Sam was concerned. It wasn't Merlin's idea—it wasn't his fault. He was just trying to have Sam's back, like he always had.

"Doc," Sam started, not knowing where to begin. He had to apologize to  _someone_  and, if Clara didn't know what happened, it would have to be to the Doctor. "I'm—"

"Sorry," the Doctor cut him off, a bite to his tone that Sam could almost feel like a slap. "I know."

Sam slinked back, wounded and quiet as a mouse. The Doctor wasn't ready to forgive just yet, and Sam didn't blame him.

Just then, a gust of wind blew in from the tunnel, carrying debris and twirling papers in its wake; a bright white light, the same as in the manor, followed it. It illuminated the archway above the tracks, enticing them towards it.

"Looks like our train's here," Dean shouted. His eyes were on Clara. "You okay to move?"

She nodded, picking herself up from the Doctor.

"Let's go," the Doctor said, jumping off the platform and rushing towards the light. The others followed him, except for Sam, who cast one last look around the underground station. He wondered if it was too late to run up the steps and make good with Mary.

He guessed it was, so he followed the light.

* * *

Sherlock couldn't breathe inside that cargo container. The air was too foul and rancid, riddled with decay. He'd managed to shake himself from Castiel and run into the relatively fresh air, gasping for breaths as he bent down and placed his palms on his knees as though he'd just run a marathon.

He was aware of Castiel following him out, reaching out a hand for support. Sherlock swatted it away.

"Stay away!" he demanded, keeping his eyes fixed on Cas as he backed away hastily. "Leave me alone."

Castiel looked at him with sympathy. "I'm sorry for what happened to you."

"Sorry?" Sherlock spat, pacing around frenetically. "That  _thing_  was inside my  _mind_! I could feel it slithering around my thoughts."

"I know," Cas said with a nod, but Sherlock was done with his vagueness.

"Do you?" he shouted, getting right into Castiel's face. " _What are you_? An angel?  _No_." He shook his head, speaking through his teeth: "What—are—you." Backing away again, he tried to solve the man in front of him once and for all.

"I  _told_  you," Castiel insisted. "You must believe me now. That demon—"

" _Demon_!" Sherlock scoffed, not allowing himself to believe it. However, he could find no explanation. He had once told John that, when all possibilities were ruled out, only the impossible could be true. But this was no genetically engineered canine. This was an impossibility he could not accept. This was a world he could not be a part of.

" _Yes_!" Cas shouted back forcefully. "It was a demon."

"It was inside my head," Sherlock said as though this somehow changed the facts into something tangible. "Do you have  _any_  idea what it is to not be in control of your own mind? To be a puppet for another?"

There was a short pause where Castiel opened and closed his mouth again. Then, he said, "Yes. I do."

Sherlock eyed him with apprehension, if he was not stunned into silence.

"Well," he said after a moment, straightening his lapels and regaining his composure. "That may be fine for you, but I won't have any part of it. If this is what I'll have to do to open more of these  _doors_ , I'd rather bow out."

Cas looked at him like he didn't understand what he was hearing. "What?" he said with contained anger.

"Yes," Sherlock decided. "The Doctor can figure this out on his own."

"They  _need_  you," Cas said, his rage growing.

"They have you," Sherlock pointed out. "I'm certain you're more than capable. You're an  _angel_ , after all."

"No." Cas took a big step forward, and Sherlock stared him down, standing his ground. " _I_  can't open these doors.  _I_  can't solve these puzzles. They're counting on  _you_."

"I owe them nothing," Sherlock reasoned. He turned on his heels, starting for the exit without another word.

"You owe it to yourself," Cas shouted after him in a gravely tone. "Prove that you won't  _leave_  every time something gets hard. You can never allow yourself return home until you can do that—until you show yourself you can fix things."

For some reason, that stopped Sherlock. Cas spoke as though he knew what he was talking about. Keeping a cool air about himself, Sherlock turned back around to face him. They stared at each other for a long while, and Sherlock saw the desperation in Castiel's eyes; it was mixed with stone cold determination.

"I was once told I was on the side of the angels," Sherlock said to him, pacing forward. "I never thought it quite so literally."

Castiel's shoulders slackened as he let out a relieved breath.

Sherlock stuck to business. "Have they moved on?"

"Yes."

"Good." Sherlock glanced at the opening of the cargo container, not daring to look inside. Someone would find the bodies soon—the smell was too great—and he knew that _parasite_  wouldn't risk staying in Lawrence for a day longer. "Where?"

"England," Cas said, narrowing his eyes to gauge Sherlock's reaction.

Outwardly, Sherlock didn't give one, but he undeniably felt his heart skip a beat. He hadn't been to England since that day . . .

"Take me there, and quickly . . . before I change my mind."


	14. Chapter 14

The sun was shining brightly now through what looked like a large village, illuminating the cobblestoned path that ran down the hill from which they were standing. Merlin squinted his eyes down the path, following it towards a dense forest that seemed to surround the town on all sides. He peered over his shoulder from the doorway in which they had all just stepped through, half expecting to see the Pathway on the other side, but got the inside of a sweets shop instead.

"Where the Hell are we now?" he heard Dean ask from the other side of the group.

"It looks like the UK," Clara offered, eyeing the Doctor to see if she was correct. She still looked a touch hazy, but was recovering.

"Yes," the Doctor said, his eyes searching the town, and meeting Merlin's for a quick moment. He took a loud sniff of the air, which made everyone but Clara jump slightly. "South England, to be specific."

"Okay, so which of you Limeys is this one set up for?" Dean asked, but Merlin was hardly paying attention anymore. There was something about that forest on the edge of town—something familiar. He looked at Arthur out of the corner of his eyes, wondering if he was feeling it, too.

The Doctor clapped his hands together, bringing Merlin back to the present. "Let's find out, shall we?" He smirked at Clara and offered her his elbow, which she looped her arms around. They led the way down the bustling hill.

The differences between Lawrence and this town were striking to Merlin. He was used to every city and every village looking relatively the same, but apparently that wasn't so in the 21st century. While Kansas was a metropolis, this city reminded him of Camelot's lower town, only modernized. Every stone and wood building seemed to be pressed up against each other here. There were statues scattered about, wagons and sheds that sold various items, and hundreds of people weaving between one another. He felt more comfortable here, like he'd finally returned home. Modern day England was easier to swallow than contemporary America.

"Hang on, Doc," Sam said when they reached the bottom of the hill. His brow was furrowed, and he was staring at a small tavern on the other end of the square. "Guys!" he said louder to catch the others' attention over the crowd.

Merlin followed his gaze toward the tavern, not seeing what was so special about it until he read the sign overhead.  _The Sword in the Stone Pub_ , it read in curved golden letters.

"The  _what_?" Arthur finally broke his silence from next to Merlin, obviously having seen the sign for himself. "The Sword in the Stone," he read, somewhat disbelieving, but he was looking at Merlin. "As in your story?"

Merlin opened his mouth, but nothing came out, so he closed it again.

"I think it's time we had a chat with the owner," the Doctor said, and they all pushed their way through the crowd towards the pub's bright red door.

The inside of the tavern was much quieter and less crowded than the streets of the town, and Merlin suspected that was because it was only midday. There were a few patrons littered about the booths, their eyes cast down into their strange-looking food.

"Ah," said a smiling, bearded man behind the bar. "What can I do ya for?"

The Doctor leaned against the polished wood between himself and the man. "Actually, we were hoping to speak to the owner."

At this, the man's expression became a confused one, and Merlin sensed some hostility in his voice when he answered, "What for?"

"The name of this place," Sam spoke up in turn.

"What about it?"

Sam shrugged. "Just wondering where he got it from."

"Well, you would, wouldn't ya," said the man, rolling his eyes. " _Colonists_."

"I'm not from the Colonies," Merlin told the man, "and I don't get it."

The man looked puzzled. "The Sword in the Stone," he repeated with emphasis, as though this would somehow clear it all up. When he was met with silence, he went on, "Everybody 'round here knows about the Sword in the Stone. It's gotta be Winchester's greatest tourist attraction," he finished, somewhat proudly.

Everyone in the group turned their eyes on Sam and Dean.

"Come again?" Dean voiced his confusion, wrinkling his nose and tilting his head to the side. " _Winchester_?"

"'Course! Where'd you think you were?"

"South England," Clara clarified. "You were right, Doctor."

"South  _what_?" asked the man.

The Doctor dismissed this. "And this Sword in the Stone," he asked the man. "Where can we find it?"

* * *

As far as tourist attractions go, this one was paralleled only by the Fountain of Youth in St. Augustine, Florida, where Sam and Dean paid twenty dollars each to look at what was basically the equivalent of an underground sprinkler system, which water tasted like sewage, and some rocks. Sam had seen swords in the center of cement hundreds of times in any given Renaissance Faire, so he was somewhat underwhelmed when their small group reached the barrier around the famous Sword in the Stone.

"Everyone gather round, make sure you've all got a good view," a small woman with a microphone headset was saying with forced happiness in her voice. "This is the Sword in the Stone. Its origins are, to this day, unknown, but about a dozen legends have circulated, trying to explain it," the tour guide bellowed, and Sam got the distinct impression that her words were automatically forming, and her mind was miles away. "The most famous legend says that, whoever can pull the sword from the stone is the one who can unite all the townships of the Isles into one rule." She forced a laugh. "Like the governments would allow  _that_!" The tourists let out polite chuckles around Sam.

"Wish we could get a little closer," Dean was complaining in hushed tones as the tour guide continued speaking, spewing out dates and fudged facts. He was standing on the balls of his feet, trying to get a better view. "See if it's the real deal."

The Doctor had his sonic screwdriver hidden underneath his folded arms, and the green tip kept flickering.

"Doc, what d'ya got?" Dean asked him.

"We're too far," the Doctor said. "There's too much interference—all these people taking pictures with camera phones and updating  _Twitter_ ," he spat.

"It's real," Sam heard Arthur assure them. He looked over at the King, standing next to Merlin, who was chewing the inside of his mouth as his eyes bore into the sword.

"How do you know?" Sam asked.

Arthur rolled his eyes and let out a huff. "Because it's  _my_  sword. I'd know it anywhere."

* * *

They all sat at a large circular table in the center of the Sword in the Stone pub, and none of them had even bothered to touch their food. They were each deep in thought, their eyes meeting each other's every now and again in silent conversations that lasted only moments before they stared back down at the dark wood of the table top.

"If that's my sword, does that mean this is Camelot?" said Arthur, and only Merlin could hear the sense of loss in his tone. "This is what my Kingdom is to become?"

"Your shining city on the hill," the Doctor said with a small smile. "This is Camelot, thousands of years later. Progress ruins everything, doesn't it?"

"I don't understand," Merlin spoke up. He shook his head slightly. "How can the sword be here?" He looked at Arthur, who was sitting across the table from him. "If neither of us existed, how can the sword?"

"Well, I thought that was obvious," Arthur said. "I'm the King of Camelot, and, here, I was never alive to release the sword. Thus, it remains in the stone until today. Keep up, Merlin."

Merlin felt his stomach drop, knowing he would have to reveal another secret that Arthur wouldn't like. "Actually, no," he said, scrunching his nose in his best attempt at an innocent expression. "You're wrong."

"What are you talking about?"

"How do you think the sword got into the stone," he sighed and averted his eyes, "if I didn't put it there?" Then he remembered something else. "Actually, how does the sword exist at all if I didn't  _create_  it?"

Arthur stammered. "If you didn't—?" His mouth was hanging open as he glared at Merlin. "You really  _were_  making that story up."

"It gave the people of Camelot hope when they most needed it," Merlin said in lieu of an excuse. "It gave  _you_  hope."

"Very well," Arthur said, seeming to accept this. "But it  _does_  raise the question: How did it get here?"

"Maybe it's like the fire at our house?" Sam offered, directing it at Dean.

"Fire?" Clara inquired. "There was no fire. Was there? How much did I miss while I was out?"

"There was—back when Sam was a baby," Dean told her. "There was demon. It's what killed our Mom. Turns out, there was a fire in the house in  _this_  Kansas, too. Happened around the same time and everything."

"Just like Margaret Germaine's spirit, here and back in our universe," the Doctor said thoughtfully.

"So, like, what?" Sam asked. "Are we still somehow connected back home?"

"Maybe," the Doctor said with a sigh. "This universe is only temporary, remember that. Built out of sand."

"Well, that's a beautiful image, Shakespeare," Dean mocked. " _English_."

The Doctor shot him a look. "I  _mean_ , what if the barrier between our world and this one is paper-thin? It would allow things to slip through."

"Could we use that to get home?" Sam wondered.

The Doctor gave a thoughtful pause. "Possibly," he said carefully, as though Sam's question was treading in dangerous territory.

Sam's mobile started buzzing from inside his jacket. "Finally," he said under his breath, and it was enough to tell the others that the call was from Sherlock. He enabled the video and placed the phone on the table between them.

"I was beginning to worry about you," the Doctor said with a playful smile.

"And it seems my worries were misguided," Sherlock answered. "I see you all made it to cargo lot in one piece."

"Cargo lot?" the Doctor repeated. "No, actually, we were in the underground."

Sherlock cocked a brow on screen. "What underground? That's not where the door was."

"It's where the portal came out."

"Really?" asked Sherlock, interested. "And what about in the manor?"

"Front door," said the Doctor nonchalantly, and Sherlock gave a thoughtful hum.

"Anyway," continued the Doctor. "We've found Excalibur, so I think that's a pretty good hint this level has something to do with Merlin."

Sherlock tilted his head, agreeing. "A bit of an obvious hint."

"Very on the nose," the Doctor said. "So, keep an eye out for anything Arthurian. Brush up on your faux history."

"What will you do?" Cas' voice said, his face suddenly appearing on the small screen next to Sherlock.

"Oh, we'll find some way to get ourselves in a hitch," the Doctor said with a blasé wave. "Don't worry about us."

When the call ended, the Doctor tossed the mobile back to Sam without looking and leaned back on the rear legs of chair. He kicked up his feet and crossed them on the tabletop, evidentially making himself comfortable.

The others glanced at each other unsurely before looking back to him.

"Are you just going to wait until they phone back?" wondered Clara.

"Yup," the Doctor told her. "Order a pint—round's on me. We'd better not take any chances after what happened in Lawrence," he said pointedly.

Merlin tried not to cast a look at Sam, but he couldn't help himself.

The Doctor folded his hands behind his head in relaxation.

"The last thing we need is more trouble."

Merlin's brows darted to his hairline at this. When did any of them  _ever_  manage to stay out of trouble?

* * *

Sherlock and Castiel sat in a café in the center of town, Sherlock scrolling through an article on his phone while Cas flipped through the menu with intrigue.

"Winchester was a formal capital city—but I already knew that," Sherlock was mumbling as he skimmed the article on the town's history. "Posh living, multiple universities. As far as I can tell, the only thing linking back to Arthur is located inside the castle."

"And what's inside the castle?" Cas wondered aloud, folding the menu and placing it to his side.

"A piece of artwork I'd like to take a closer look at," answered Sherlock with a soft grin. "The castle isn't far from us. It's only a ten minute walk."

Cas nodded. "Okay," he said, but there was an air about him that suggested he had something on his mind. He took in a deep breath, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes curiously.

"Yes?" Sherlock asked.

"There is something," Cas said, looking down at the tabletop, appearing to collect his thoughts. "What happened to you back in Lawrence, when the demon accessed your memories . . ."

Sherlock's jaw tightened. He didn't like where this was going.

"It spoke of your friend," Cas continued, and Sherlock slackened his shoulders and leaned back in the booth. "You mustn't blame yourself. I understand the pain it's caused you, but you're a good man. I'm certain you wouldn't have done what you did without good intentions," he continued, looking at his reflection in the window. "I—I know what it's like to want to do the right thing, only to be left with guilt."

Sherlock quirked his eyebrows, but didn't say anything when Cas met his eyes.

"I believe both of us will make it right one day," Cas finished with a slight nod of support in Sherlock's direction.

In that moment, a waitress came over and placed a cup of coffee in front of Cas, muttering, "Here you are, sir."

"Yes," Sherlock said uncomfortably, watching the waitress head back to the counter. "Now that that's out of the way . . ."

He collected his phone and slid out of the table, giving Castiel a forced smile.

"I think I'll start towards the castle." He nodded down towards the coffee. "In your own time."

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he tried not to rush out of the café  _too_  quickly.

* * *

The doors of the pub slammed open, and three people rushed in: a young man and a teenage girl, dragging a bloodied and unconscious boy between them. Everyone in the room looked at the scene in a panic and began muttering in low voices, and some people even stood up to get a better view of what was going on. One of those people was Arthur.

"Adam, we need your help!" the girl called out, and the barkeep rushed around the bar with protruding eyes. The teenagers could no longer hold their friend and let his body slip to the floor. They bent down next to him.

"Oh, how many times, Veronica? I've told you to stay away from the border!" the pub's owner, Adam, scolded the two, but that seemed to be the least of his worries at the moment. He knelt down over the unconscious teenager and checked for a pulse.

"Will he be alright?" the second boy asked, his voice shaking and tears in his eyes.

Adam looked up at him solemnly. "Go upstairs and fetch Larissa. Tell her to bring the First Aid Kit."

The boy nodded feverishly and jumped to his feet.

"And tell her to call the hospital!" Adam shouted after him.

Meanwhile, a small crowd of patrons had congregated around the scene, and Sam, Merlin, the Doctor, and Arthur had pushed their way to the front. Dean and Clara stayed behind at the table, standing on top of their chairs to survey the scene better.

"Is there anything we can do for this man?" Arthur asked the barkeep.

"Get some towels. We need to stop the bleeding," Adam said distractedly, cupping his hands over the boy's abdomen. However, they soon began to slip with wet crimson.

As Arthur rushed towards the bar, Sam knelt down and looked at Adam sympathetically. "Let me," he offered, and Adam removed his hands so Sam could apply more pressure.

"What happened to him?" the Doctor wondered, directing the question at a distraught looking Veronica.

She stayed at her friend's side, holding his cold hand firmly in hers, and she had silent tears running down her cheeks when she looked up at the Doctor. "Scott dared him to jump over the fence into Eastleigh," she told him. "I told him not to—told him it was too dangerous."

" _Eastleigh_?" Adam repeated in disbelief. "Christ, Veronica. They don't let anyone into their borders—only the merchants."

"I told him he'd get shot if they caught him," she continued, her voice cracking with a sob.

Arthur returned with the towels, and he and Sam worked on mopping up the blood. It wasn't long until the rags were soaked with red.

"He passed out on the drive back."

"You should have taken him directly to hospital," the Doctor told her. "He needs a doctor, not dish rags and plasters."

Veronica shook her head, not understanding. "A  _doctor_?"

"I don't know what you mean by doctor," Adam said, picking up the boy and cradling him in his arms as he stood up. "But this man's right, Veronica. You should have taken him the parameds straight away. We haven't got much time. Come help me bring the car 'round."

The crowd parted to let them pass through the door, and the other young man came rushing down the stairs behind the bar with a frantic looking woman close behind. The boy looked wildly around before his eyes settled on the pool of blood on the floor, and he let out a sharp gasp.

"They went for the car," the Doctor told him, and the boy gave a fleeting look behind him at the woman before rushing out of the pub, too.

"What the Hell was that about?" Merlin voiced as the crowd began to disperse.

"He mentioned borders," Sam told the other three, using a rag to wipe the blood off his hands to little avail. "I was doing research earlier, about all the territories taken over by aliens, right? But Europe wasn't one of them. All the countries were too busy fighting civil wars."

"England?" the Doctor asked.

Sam let out a breath of laughter. "Try the whole U.K. Except they called it the Isles."

Merlin nodded in thought. "Didn't that woman at the attraction call it the Isles?"

"She did," Arthur agreed.

"Anyway, it was all broken up into, like, provinces," Sam continued, running a hand through his hair. "Each town had its own laws and governments and whatever. Some of them were enemies; some, allies. Here, I'll show you—"

He looked to the woman who was now behind the bar, visibly trying to take her mind off what had just happened, but she continued to wring her hands as she moved up and down the small space.

"Hey," Sam called to her, getting her attention. "You wouldn't happen to have a map, by any chance?"

She gave a sniffle and nodded. "We have maps of Winchester in there," she said, pointing towards a rack of brochures and pamphlets against the wall.

"Okay," Sam said patiently. "I mean, bigger? Something that covers the entire area, maybe?"

She shrugged. "Adam keeps an atlas upstairs."

"Great!" Sam told her, his eyes lighting up. "Perfect! Any chance we can get a look?"

The pub owner's wife retrieved them the atlas book, and Sam retreated back towards their table in the corner. He flipped open to a map of the Isles and unfolded it upon the tabletop.

"See?" he said, tracing his finger across the borders with one hand and pushing his hair out from his eyes with the other. "They're like separate nations, just like I saw online."

"Sammy's got a thing for research," Dean told Clara with a smirk. "He's kinda obsessed."

"Good," Clara answered shortly, smiling at Sam. "I like a man who knows his head from his end. Might be a help to us."

Dean's face fell. "Uh—well, I've been known to pick up a book or two . . ."

Clara gave him a curt, playful smile. "'Course you have."

The Doctor shot them a look. "Yes, if you two are quite done  _flirting_."

Dean raised his hands in surrender. "Done," he said. "So what's up with the different territories? Wasn't England united, like—way before any of us were born?"

"No," Arthur told him. "I tried. I'd made peace treaties with the other kingdoms, of course. One day, I hoped to achieve unity, however . . ."

"You put the pieces in motion," the Doctor said, nodding to Merlin, too. "Both of you did. Without your initial idea, there were no building blocks. Nothing to work off."

Arthur scoffed. "Surely someone else must have come along with the idea."

"Apparently not someone people could get behind," said the Doctor. "No great Kings or leaders of men. You had a vision and people who believed in you. You'd be shocked at how hard that is to come by."

Dean tilted his head to the side and pursed his lips as he gazed down at the map. "Guess this really is your level, then."

* * *

Later, Cas found Sherlock in the main hall of the castle, his arms folded behind his back, as he looked thoughtfully upwards at the sizeable, round green and white painting that hung on the stone wall. A red rose was in the center of the work, with the image of a man on a throne directly above the middle. Castiel stopped walking and stood besides Sherlock, cocking his head to the side in attempt to read the large scripted names on the boarder of the artifact.

"It's known as the Winchester Round Table," Sherlock told him, not taking his eyes off the work. "It's said to date back to the thirteenth century, commissioned by Edward I."

"Is it significant?" Castiel wondered.

"Not now, no," Sherlock told him. "But it might have once been monumental. In the early 1500s, it was repainted by command of Henry VIII." He pointed up towards the King depicted. "That's him. It's said other aspects of the painting were changed, as well, but no one knows what it looked like beforehand."

Finally, he tore his gaze from the painting and turned his head to Cas, meeting his eyes.

"I fancy finding out."

* * *

_Winchester, England  
_ _1522_

A faint image of a sword could still be seen beneath the thin strokes of light green paint. The brush was dipped back into the color, and it was slathered onto the hard wood of the ancient canvas. The man leaned down close to the surface, inspecting his handiwork for any trace of the covered up painting below, and then he looked up at the rest of the monstrous painting.

He had only managed to cover the lower half of the original work on that day, his first day since taking on the task, and the creamy white and pale green glistened in the moonlight that poured into his workshop as the paint dried. He could already envision the finished masterpiece: elegant names of the legendary Knights would replace the unrealistic caricatures of the men sitting in disproportionate chairs; the center would depict a rose, a symbol of the monarchy; and, in Arthur's throne, would be a new face, the face of the current King. The man grinned at this thought. He was proud of that last touch; King Henry would make him a rich man because of it.

He rubbed his bloodshot tired eyes and stood up from his workbench, satisfied with his labors of the day. It was time to call it night. He set his brush down next to his other various tools and stretched before slumping out the front door of his one-room workshop.

Moments later, after the artist had bolted the door closed and stumbled into the nearest pub down the road, it creaked opened again, and two figures entered the room.

"It appears his apprentice has gone home for the day, as well," Sherlock said, skimming the room. He saw the uncomfortable bunk in the corner, a basin on the floor beside it. "But the master could be back any time. He lives here." He pointed out his findings to Castiel. "I expected as much."

Upon looking at Castiel, Sherlock noted the lines on the angel's face. He looked drained, weary; and Sherlock assumed it was the time jump that had done it to him. That much exertion of power and energy must be difficult on the body, but no Doctor meant no functioning Tardis, so Sherlock had to work with what he had. Besides, Castiel had offered it in the first place, which seemed easier than stealing the artwork and running chemical tests on it.

Castiel pointed to the center of the room, where the great tabletop canvas lay propped up horizontally on stands. "There it is," he said, quite uselessly, Sherlock thought, because it was very hard to miss. However, Sherlock let it slide and he started towards the painting.

He surveyed the artist's attempts to cover the original, and then turned his gaze to the unmarked side. It had all the telling of medieval artwork: a lack of depth and a caricature of the human body in the subjects, but it was exquisite.

"Think on this: No one will ever see this sight again," he breathed, ghosting his fingers over the untouched side in a moment of appreciation.

"I suggest you take a picture," Castiel said dryly, remembering something humorous Dean once said to him. "It will last longer."

Sherlock shot him an unamused look from over his shoulder, but he supposed Cas was right. They mustn't linger.

He began inspecting the original more closely, his eyes drawn to the figure at the very top of the canvas. The subject was a blonde man with piercing blue eyes and the words  _Arthur Pendragon_  were inscribed below him. Following in suit, each Knight had their name written below their chair; however, also at Arthur's feet, lay an illuminated sword, shining in gold, with the tip pointing towards the dragon emblem in the center. Running parallel to the sword were scripted black words reading  _the rise_.

Sherlock looked down at the image directly across from Arthur, which was still glistening with fresh green paint.

"There's a basin next to the cot," Sherlock told Cas. "Hand me a damp cloth."

He held out his palm, waiting for Cas to cross the room and run water over the paint stained cloth that had been bundled on the workbench. After Castiel slapped the rag into Sherlock's hand, Sherlock bent down and began to scrub the fresh paint away.

"Uh," said Cas unsurely. "Won't the painter notice?"

"Oh, don't worry, we'll be long gone by then," Sherlock told him nonchalantly as green tinted water dripped off the side of the canvas into a puddle on the floor.

When Sherlock was satisfied, he straightened out and peered down at the newly revealed image. It was of another Knight, with the name  _Sir Mordred_  painted underneath him. Like the portrait of Arthur across from it, Mordred was also depicted with a sword at his feet, this one glowing black; it, too, pointed towards the center. Written alongside the sword were the words  _the fall_. Sherlock studied the words perplexedly.

"What is it that creature told you in Lawrence?" he asked, pressing his palms atop the stands beneath the painting and leaning down to study it closer.

"Silence will fall when the Once and Future King rises," Cas repeated, apparently having followed Sherlock's train of thought upon seeing the words. "It was a prophecy."

"No," Sherlock corrected. "We shared a mind. It wasn't only intended as a prophecy. It was a  _fact_. It was telling us where go next."

"The demon?" Cas wondered. "Why would it give us clues?"

"To keep us in the game, of course," Sherlock said. He was pacing now, his mind ricocheting from one idea to the next. "They want us to keep playing. They  _want_  the puzzles to get easier."

Cas shook his head. "Why give us a clue if Dean and Sam and the Doctor are the ones playing?"

"No, Castiel.  _We're_  the ones playing!" Sherlock told him with a gesture. "All the others have to do is stay alive.  _We're_  moving them to the next levels. We've been taken to where we need to go to open the doors—not the Doctor. The manor, Lawrence, Winchester—we've been lured to each place to find clues, because the doors are fixed in one location, but the portals could be anywhere nearby. That's why it opened on the lower level of the house while we were on the upper; why they came through in the underground and we were miles outside of town. Since the beginning, they've  _wanted_  us to get the others through to the end."

Castiel's eyes were shifting as he listened, processing the implications of this information. "That would mean the game is fixed."

"Or a trap," Sherlock considered.

Cas bristled. "We have to get back to the present," he said decisively. "We have to warn the Doctor."

"Hmm?" asked Sherlock, coming out of his thoughts as he stopped pacing. "Warn them, why?"

Cas darted his eyes back and forth unsurely. "Because, if it is a trap, they could be in danger."

"They already  _are_  in danger," Sherlock reminded him. "Trap or no, the only way out is to play towards the end. Their only chance is for us to beat this level."

Castiel didn't seem to like this, but he nodded. "How do we find the next door?"

"We follow the map," Sherlock said, nodding back towards the Round Table painting. "It's telling us precisely where we need to be. Now, as you say, let's get back to the present so the others can follow our lead."

* * *

"Camlann," Sherlock told them. "The door is in Camlann."

Merlin and Arthur exchanged a tense glance and, when Arthur looked back down at the phone, Merlin kept his eyes on him.

Dean must have caught this because he asked, "What the Hell is Camlann?"

"Arthur's last battle," Sam clarified, and Merlin felt his eyes on him.

"And his final stand," Sherlock went on over the phone. "The door is located where he died."

Merlin shook his head suddenly. "No, you're wrong," he said, ignoring Sherlock's scoff. "Arthur did not die at Camlann."

"Look, kid, we all get that he's here now," Dean interrupted. "But now's not the time for technicalities."

"No, he's right," Arthur said, staring down at the spread out atlas thoughtfully. "I was only wounded in the battle."

"He died on the shores of Avalon," Merlin said, pressing his finger into the map. "There. It's four days on foot."

"By car's that a day—day and a half, maybe," Dean calculated.

"Across the border," the Doctor reminded them, tracing the territory around Winchester. "It will be tricky." He looked to Merlin. "You're confident you know the way?"

"With my eyes closed," he answered blandly.

The Doctor didn't seem so sure. "That's thousands of years, Merlin," he said. "Things change."

"Doesn't matter," Merlin said surely. "I know I can get us there from here."

"How?" Dean asked warily.

"Because I make the journey there and back each month," he said, and Arthur finally looked up at him again, his eyes big and apologetic. Merlin shuffled slightly in his shoes under the gaze. "I can do it," he confirmed again.

Sam clapped him on the shoulder. "That's good enough for me," he said, backing Merlin up.

"Me, too," said the Doctor. He turned his attention back to the video call. "Merlin will give you the directions," he told Sherlock and Cas. "We'll meet you there shortly. There's something we need first."

"Need?" Sherlock repeated, raising a brow. "And that is?"

"Not sure yet," the Doctor answered ambiguously. "The sonic screwdriver keeps picking up on background particles on things that mirror events and objects in our universe. I'd like to take a closer look at why that is. For that, I'll need something tangible."

Dean shot him an uneasy look. "Please don't say what I think you're gonna say."

The Doctor beamed at him slyly. "Looks like we'll have to nick Winchester's biggest tourist attraction."


	15. Chapter 15

Sam stuck his head outside the door again and peered up and down the long hallway that ran the length of the building. It was still all clear, like the Doctor said it would be; but he'd also told Sam to keep watch, which made Sam think the Doctor didn't really know what he was talking about.

They'd set up shop in one of the lower-level offices of the two-storey building that overlooked the attractions: a modest faux-jousting pitch that served as the stage for two daily performances, the pen and stables where the horses were kept on off-hours, a souvenir shop and a few snack vendors, and finally the prized Sword in the Stone.

Behind Sam, in the office, the Doctor had hacked into the computer and was plotting out their routes while Merlin and Arthur slipped custodial jumpers over their clothing. Dean, who was not there, had been charged with finding and stealing a getaway car large enough to fit the entire group.

Sam looked down at his watch. It was a quarter to eleven at night, and he took another sweeping view of the hallway. Letting out an anxious breath, he reasoned everyone had gone home for the night, like they'd planned.

Someone cleared their voice in close proximity to Sam's back, and he looked over his shoulder to find Clara smiling civilly up at him, clearly with something on her mind.

"Uh—Clara," Sam greeted, and he found he still wasn't able to look her in the eyes. "Hey. What's—uh—what's up?"

"Well, now that you mention it," Clara began coolly. "I just wanted to say—the Doctor told me what happened. Back in Lawrence, I mean."

Sam looked down at his shoes and smiled guiltily. "He did, huh?"

Clara nodded and hummed in response. She seemed to be searching Sam's face with an incredulous expression, and Sam knew this was it: She was about to tell him that she wanted nothing to do with him after all this was over. He figured he should at least try to apologize before she wrote him off completely, even if she'd never accept it.

"Listen, Clara—" He supposed years of making mistakes should have made him a pro at pleading for forgiveness, but he found he never quite knew what to say. "You can't even  _guess_  how sorry I am. I—Look, if I could take it back— _all of it_ —"

But Clara was laughing. It was a sweet laugh, and it confused Sam.

"Slow down, boy," Clara told him with a wave of her hand. "I  _completely_  understand."

Sam didn't know if he'd heard her right. "You—you  _do_?"

"It's just—" Suddenly, her jovial expression fell, and it was replaced with something sad—some memory. "If I could somehow bring my mum back . . ." She paused, and then nodded decisively. "I would want to do that same," she finished, and her big brown eyes met his empathetic glance. She pushed a fraction of a smile onto her face.

Sam didn't really know what to say to her, so he opened his mouth, hoping the right string of words would somehow be put together.

However, she beat him to it. "But, just so we're clear," she said after clearing her throat again and getting her usual sassy demeanor back. "There's no strike two. If you ever pull anything like that again, it won't be monsters you'll have to watch out for—it will be me."

Sam let out a disconcerted snort of laughter. He had a feeling that, for such a small girl, Clara packed a big punch. He'd take Hell-spawn over her any day.

"Got it," he told her. "Definitely won't be needing a strike two."

She gave him a sly, puckered smirk and crossed her arms over her chest.

* * *

Meanwhile, across the room, Merlin was lacing up his shoes after tucking in the excess trouser bottoms of the jumper into the soles. It wasn't a perfect fit but, with any luck, he wouldn't be in it for very long. Next to him, Arthur, who had been struggling to fit the uniform they'd found for him over his clothes, had gone completely motionless. Merlin rose to his feet and looked at him out of the corner of his eyes warily. The King looked deep in thought.

"Arthur?" Merlin asked, wondering why he'd fallen so silent.

Arthur seemed to wake up from a dream, and his eyes no longer looked glazed over. He looked at Merlin up and down imploringly.

"Do you ever get the feeling like someone's been walking over your grave?" he asked, and Merlin felt a lump form in his throat.

Arthur shook his head, realizing the question must have irked Merlin. "It's just an expression, Merlin," he said with a sudden grin. "You certainly won't let me rest in peace, will you?"

Merlin tried to smile but, before he could respond, the Doctor spoke up from next to the computer.

"Alright, we haven't got a lot of time and even less time to do it," he said, clapping his hands together to gain everyone's attention. Then he pointed to the door, where Sam and Clara stood. "Clara and I will go to the security office on the second floor and dismantle the alarms. I can override the silent alarm for the main gate, but the Sword is on a different system. The most I can do is hold it off for a few minutes. So! Merlin, Arthur—Good you're in your disguise; remember to smile for the security cameras. You'll be getting the Sword. In and right out, or else the police show up and we're all toast."

He let out a childish laugh, his mouth forming a big gaping grin, like all of this was some big joke, but all it did was make Merlin feel worse.

"Anyway. Sam—Clara and I need full access to the security office. That means the guard can't be in there. I've managed to hack into the camera feed, and he's patrolling the grounds at the moment. Your job is to find him and take him out—in the least violent way you can think," he added with a hint of unintended harshness in his otherwise carefree tone.

Sam suddenly became interested in the floor, but Clara shot him a supportive smile, so he nodded and said, "Got it."

"Good," the Doctor said quickly. "Soon as you're done, go find your brother and tell him to pull up so we can all escape. Now—"

The short tails of his purple coat flew behind him as he spun around on the balls of his feet and swept his sonic screwdriver up from the computer desk before turning back around. "Let's synchronize watches." However, he and Sam were the only ones with a watch, so he amended his rally by saying, "Get going, Sam. We'll be right behind you."

As Sam left the room, Merlin turned to Arthur, who was still fiddling with the zipper of his jumper.

"Here, let me," Merlin said, zipping Arthur's suit up the rest of the way. When he met his glance again, Arthur was giving him a peculiar look.

"Thank you," he said, and there was something in his voice that was genuine. Merlin wasn't used to gratitude from Arthur.

He smiled disarmingly. "A thank you?" he joked as he stepped back. "Looks like the future's changing you."

Arthur looked away and let out a chuckle. "Don't try to be funny, Merlin," he teased. "It doesn't become you."

"Of course, my Lord," he answered lightly.

Arthur's eyes darted back to him rapidly. "I'm not your Lord, Merlin," he said, and the smile faded from Merlin's face. "Not anymore, and especially not here." Arthur offered him a smile and clapped his hand on Merlin's shoulder, giving it a friendly squeeze before releasing him once more and starting off. "Shall we?"

Merlin watched after him with a sadness in his heart that he couldn't explain. He should have been happy. After all, he'd always longed for the day when Arthur saw Merlin for what he truly was—a day when they would stand as friends, not servant and master. It's something he had always wanted . . .

But it wasn't something Arthur would say—at least not aloud.

Merlin clenched his jaw when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head only by a fraction to see the Doctor glancing over towards him with hooded eyes, stalking in the peripheral of the room. Merlin shook the uneasy feeling from his gut, convincing himself that Arthur had pleasantly surprised him and nothing more. He would not allow the Doctor to get under his skin.

He shot the Time Lord a glare before following Arthur out.

* * *

Sam stood by the stables that were located right outside the main gate, trying to keep in the shadows next to wall. Next to him a horse gave a whiney, alerted by Sam's presence, and Sam looked at it frantically and hushed it. The animal sneered but was apparently too busy at the trowel to do anything else about it.

In the distance, he saw the beam of a flashlight bobbing up and down lazily as the security guard approached the horses. Sam readied himself with his knife in his hand, keeping his breathing low. He knew he'd only have one shot at this before the guard moved on towards the main gate and catch Merlin and Arthur.

The guard shown his flashlight into the wooden fence, and he grinned at the palomino horse that Sam had perturbed, before rounding it towards the side of the barn. Sam stepped out of the shadows behind the man and brought the handle of the knife crashing down on his head.

The guard wobbled in a daze for a moment before falling backward into Sam, who caught him under the armpits and dragged him unceremoniously to the side of the barn. That's where Sam laid the man on the dirt and rushed off to find Dean.

* * *

The Doctor was typing at the computer with one hand, while the other held up the glowing tip of the sonic to the monitor. Clara sat in the spinning chair behind him, wheeling back and forth and turning in full circles as she tossed a stress ball she had found on the desk from one hand to the other. She glanced up at the wall of security monitors that showed various parts of the hallways and the dark, deserted grounds of the attraction, before looking back at the Doctor.

"Right!" he was saying, a beaming grin on his face. "That should give 'em a few minutes." He leaned on the desk facing Clara and crossed his arms. "We should be making our way out soon," he added, lavishly looking at his watch. "The Winchesters will be pulling up any moment."

She leaned back in her chair, studying him curiously. "Doctor?" she said abruptly.

"Hmm?"

"Who's in charge of these games?"

The Doctor looked at her with a shocked expression, clearly not having anticipated the question.

"What makes you think I know?" he asked.

"Because you do." She set the stress ball back on the desk and leaned in close, folding her hands in front of her. "Back at the manor," she explained, fixing him with a hard stare, "you told Sherlock you had an inkling of who's behind this. It's been a few days since then, and I'm sure you've made up your mind about it by now."

When the Doctor didn't answer right away, she looked at him through narrow eyes and said, "You know who is it, don't you? You've seen this before."

He looked at her like a deer caught in the headlights, until finally he said, "Yes."

Mentally patting herself on the back, Clara opened her mouth to ask him to divulge the information, but he quickly followed up with: "I  _have_  made up my mind."

There was a soft knock on the door with a congruent, "Just saying goodnight, Jim—Oh."

The Doctor and Clara nearly gave themselves whiplash as they turned their heads towards the door, greeted by a stunned and confused looking woman. Clara recognized her as their tour guide from earlier that day.

"You're—you're not Jim," the woman was saying, and then she realized she didn't know them. "Who are you?"

"Ah! Yes," the Doctor said, turning fully around to her and flourishing his arms. "There's a perfectly good explanation why we're here and—"

"Oh, my god."

But the woman wasn't looking at the Doctor. She was looking behind him, at the security footage. Clara swiveled her head up to the black and white screens, a flash of movement in the darkness catching her eyes. It was Merlin and Arthur, making their way across the jousting field, towards the Sword.

"Oh, my  _god_!" the woman shouted again, and she didn't waste any more time before running full speed down the corridor.

"No!" the Doctor shouted after her before, too, bolting, and Clara followed in his wake.

The clattering of the tour guide's heels against the tile stopped for a moment about a minute later when she reached an alarm pad at the other end of the hall. She hit two buttons and suddenly, a loud alarm started blaring through the building. The tour guide rushed into a nearby office and locked the door behind her.

"Can you stop it?" Clara yelled over the alarm, but the Doctor grabbed her by the arm and starting running for the stairs.

"It's too late for that now," he told her. "We'd better get out of here!"

"Wait! What about Merlin and Arthur?"

* * *

A woman crossed the street, her hands shoved into her pockets and black hood pulled down low over her face, but bunches of red waves fell as she looked down at the tar beneath her feet. Dean knew he couldn't see her face, but she had the strangest air of familiarity about her, and he watched her until her slender figure turned a corner and disappeared out of sight.

There was a sudden raping of knuckles on the window of the passenger side, and Dean bolted upright and turned to the newcomer. He let out a relieved breath as soon as he saw who it was.

" _Jesus_ , Sam," he said irritably after rolling down the window.

Sam let out an amused chuckle and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. "The Doc says you should pull up to the gate," Sam said, right before the sound of sirens reached them. From the sound of it, they weren't too distant, and they were approaching rapidly.

Sam and Dean's eyes went wide as they both craned their necks to get a better view of the attraction building at the bottom of the hill. Now that he was alert, Dean could just vaguely make out the sound of another alarm over the sirens.

Presently, two cop cars whizzed down the empty road perpendicular to where Dean had parked the Land Rover he'd stolen. The flashing lights lit up the block in blue and white tints as they raced by.

"Get in the car," Dean told his brother with an urgent gesture. He was already putting the car into gear, and Sam was scrambling to do as he was told. "C'mon, get in!"

Dean tore away from the sidewalk before Sam had fully closed the door.

* * *

They had gotten half way through the jousting pitch when the alarms started to go off, and Merlin remembered what the Doctor said about the police coming if that happened.

"It hasn't been a  _few_  minutes," Arthur breathed next to him, both of them standing still as they listened.

"No, it hasn't."

As Merlin strained his ears, he could hear more alarms in the distance. He reasoned those must belong to the responders the Doctor had warned them about and, if it was anything like the bells of Camelot, it wasn't a good thing.

"I'll lock the gate," Merlin told him, already starting in that direction. It had been a slow crawl in the darkness when they wanted to avoid any suspicion, but Merlin figured he could get across the grounds in a little under a minute if he ran very quickly.

"Good. I'll get my sword," Arthur reported and sprinted off into the other direction.

Merlin had agreed at first, and then he realized that Arthur would not be able to pull Excalibur from the boulder without his magic. He wasn't planning on telling Arthur that little fact, but he knew the King would find out if he suddenly couldn't recreate this feat.

"Arthur!" Merlin shouted, trying to halt him, but he was too far gone. Merlin chewed the inside of his mouth, ricocheting his neck from one direction to the other as he quickly tried to decide which to go in: the gate's or Arthur's. He chose Arthur.

It didn't take him long to catch up but, by the time he did, Arthur was already posed over the stone, gripping the sword with both hands and giving a forceful tug. Merlin was just about to shout for him when, suddenly, the sword loosened, and white sparks flew as the blade seamlessly separated from the rock that encapsulated it.

Merlin slowed to a stop, watching with wide disbelieving eyes as Arthur held the sword up. The King didn't even wear a satisfied smirk on his face. He'd just expected the sword to follow his will, as it had.

Arthur caught sight of Merlin watching him with an open mouth.

"Stop standing there catching flies," he barked, letting his arm fall to his side. He made for Merlin's direction until he was right in front of him. "We have to move."

"How—?" Merlin stuttered. He'd forgotten the sirens and the alarms, forgotten the plan. All his mind could focus on was the man in front of him, a dark thought pushing its way into the back of his head. The thought was spoken in the Doctor's voice.

"What do you mean, how?" Arthur asked, not really interested. He grabbed Merlin's sleeve and began to pull. "We've got to go!"

Merlin tugged free, and Arthur rounded on him with distressed, angered eyes. " _Mer_ lin!"

"What was the last conversation you had with Gwen?" Merlin blurted out.

"What?"

"When I wasn't present?" Merlin amended. If the Doctor was right, and Arthur had been built from Merlin's memories, he wouldn't be able to tell Merlin of a time when he was not there. Merlin felt his stomach drop and his mind hollow; he felt every atom of himself tense and convulse, and all he could do was stare blankly at Arthur. He didn't want to believe that the Doctor was right—that Arthur was just a footprint of what once was. He so very much prayed that Arthur could answer the question.

"Or anything you did when I wasn't around?" Merlin tried, despite Arthur's wrinkled brows and nostril. "What's the last thing you remember before the battle?"

Arthur gaped, and his mouth started moving as though he was going to answer, but there were shouts from across the grounds as five policemen opened the gate and fanned out, trudging through the mud and grass. Merlin felt the air come back to him and shot a look into that dark direction.

"Go back through the building," he told Arthur, as the main gate was no longer an option.

"Hey—you, there!" they heard a foreign voice shout at them, and Merlin and Arthur rushed in the opposite direction from the gate towards the office building.

Behind them, Merlin heard the sloshing of nearly a dozen boots against mud as the police made chase, but they reached the heavy double doors of the building and burst through. Merlin used magic to lock the doors and turned back to the long corridor of the first floor. Half way down it was an exit, and the two men started for it.

They had nearly reached it when the police began pounding on the doors behind them, and Merlin slid to a halt to look back.

"What are you  _doing_?" Arthur scolded, slowing to a jog before he, too, stopped completely. Merlin looked at him and he gestured towards the exit. "We're almost there."

"What if the Winchesters haven't arrived?" Merlin asked.

"Then we keep running!"

There was more pounding at the door, and Merlin looked at it warily.

"You go," he said decisively.

"What?"

"Go!" Merlin yelled, making a flapping gesture towards Arthur. "The doors will not hold for long. I can hold the men back."

Arthur remembered the sword in his fist and raised it bravely, but Merlin shook his head wildly.

"They have guns, Arthur," he reasoned, remembering what Sam had called the weapons earlier. "You have a sword. Don't be stupid."

"Merlin, I can deflect an arrow from a thousand paces with a sword—"

"These are faster!" Merlin shouted. They didn't have time for this. "Go find Dean. Tell him to bring the car around to the building, not the gate. Go!"

The doors began to rattle under the pressure, and Merlin heard the loud banging of gunfire as the men tried to get through the lock. Arthur shot Merlin an apprehensive look, but he turned quickly and rushed for the main exit.

Merlin let out a deep breath that he'd been holding in since Arthur retrieved Excalibur, and he faced the doors. Squaring his soldiers, he felt his magic bristling through the veins right under his skin. He allowed the doors to slam open, and five uniformed men burst through.

He wasted no time before summoning his magic with a lengthy incantation, and he finished it by slamming his open palm to the whitewashed wall beside him. From his hand, a crack in the wall sprung out, spiking and dipping as it shot towards the hustling police. Midway towards the men, the crack peaked, and the building rumbled. Large chunks of ceiling and wall gave way, causing the men to jump backward. At once, that small section corridor caved in, separating Merlin and the police with a wall of rubble.

The threat was neutralized, but it made Merlin feel faint. He knew he should be using his magic sparingly, and that spell needed a lot of power. It was too much. He gripped his head, watching the world spin around him.

There was a booming noise somewhere behind him as the exit door opened, and the sound of footsteps echoed in Merlin's head and made him feel dizzy as he cast his eyes up to the blinding florescent lighting.

He heard his name being called from somewhere far away, or perhaps under water. The muffled voice was yelling. It sounded like the Doctor.

Suddenly, his arm was being jerked and wrapped around someone's shoulders. Merlin turned his head and made out the Time Lord's face.

"Doctor?" he asked, blinking in confusion.

"We have to go," the Doctor was saying urgently, and Merlin stumbled but tried to stay on his feet as the Doctor dragged him towards the exit. He was vaguely aware of the wind on his face as they cleared the door, and he saw the Doctor wave the sonic screwdriver in back on him. The door locked and the two of them were breathing in the night air.

Two more blinding lights sped towards them, cutting through the darkness, and Merlin thrust out his free arm that had been dangling at his side and leveled his palm at the lights.

"No!" the Doctor told him, forcing his arm down as the two lights skidded to a halt next to them.

"Get in!" Dean shouted from the driver's seat.

The Doctor threw open the back door and haphazardly shoved Merlin in first before jumping in after him. The tires squealed and the SUV peeled away from the building, and Merlin felt sick in the sudden sensation of moving.

"What's happened to him?" Merlin heard Arthur demanding. He felt himself being propped against something warm but hard, like flesh and bone. "Doctor!"

"Doc, is he alright?" That had been Sam's voice, and Merlin wished Arthur would speak again.

He called for Arthur, trying to locate his face.

"He's here, Merlin," said the Doctor, who was the only person Merlin could see amongst the black. "You're safe."

He searched the Doctor's face, which sunk deeper and deeper into the blackness. He felt safe, and he knew he would be with the Doctor at his side. He knew Arthur would be protected. He allowed his eyes to close and his body to relax.

* * *

The world rushed back to him, and he sat up with a start. He hadn't been out for long, because they were still driving through the city, but he was now in the very back seat of the car. Merlin's movement made Arthur jump, too, and Merlin realized he'd somehow passed out on Arthur's shoulder. He looked around himself in a state of disorientation.

"Good to see you're back with us," Clara said from the middle row of the SUV, looking back at Merlin with a smile.

He looked to the front seat and saw Sam peering at him through the rear view mirror. "Everything alright back there?"

Merlin nodded, and his eyes rested on the Doctor, who was fiddling with the sonic screwdriver, only appearing to look busy, sitting next to Clara in the middle row. He glanced over at Merlin when he felt his eyes on him.

"You came back for me," Merlin said, recalling the armed men in the corridor.

"'Course, I did," the Doctor said, and Merlin could hear the weight of the words behind their airy façade. "We're mates."

Merlin swallowed hard as guilt washed over him. He had acted appallingly towards the Doctor, and the Doctor still went back for him. Despite everything Merlin had said to him, he risked himself to save Merlin—to protect him with no ulterior motive. At once, Merlin knew he had made a fatal mistake all over again: He only saw enemies where Arthur was involved. He was just lucky he hadn't created one this time.

He turned his head next to him towards Arthur, who was looking at him happily, but Merlin could only offer a weak smile in return.

"What were you saying back at the stone?" Arthur implored.

Merlin gave a thoughtful pause before shaking his head. "It's nothing," he decided.

If Arthur was brought back through Merlin's magic, like the Doctor said, and that same magic was the only thing binding Arthur to this universe, perhaps he carried some of it with him? Perhaps that was how he was able to free the stone with no assistance, because he believed he could? Merlin convinced himself it was so.

He turned to the window and watched the outside speed by as the car silently slipped out of the town and towards the open road.


	16. Chapter 16

The sun was coming up as Dean drove the Land Rover down the narrow, unpaved road, Sam stared out the windshield, watching the large wired fence at the border grow closer in the distance. He glanced into the review mirror at Merlin, Arthur, the Doctor, and Clara, crammed into the backseats, all of them readying themselves.

Nearly five minutes later, they reached the checkpoint, and the car slowed to a halt before the watchtower next to the fence's gate. Nearly a dozen uniformed men patrolled the entrance, and Sam noted their large guns with growing trepidation as Dean rolled down his window and flashed a disarming grin.

"Hey, there," Dean said casually, and the man who had approached the car peered into the backseat to survey it. "We're headed down to Portsmouth. Got an order of ship parts we need to pick up."

"Merchants' registration," the man asked, and Dean slapped the Doctor's psychic paper into his palm. He narrowed his eyes at it for a tense moment before seeming satisfied and handing it back.

"What does Winchester want with ship parts?" he asked warily.

Dean chuckled. "I only drive 'em back and forth, man. Anythin' else ain't up to me."

"You're from the Colonies?" the soldier observed.

"That's right," Dean said, licking his lips. He was taken a bit off guard by the question, but didn't show it.

The man nodded. "Alright, then. You should be clear to go. Just got to call this in—make sure a trade was scheduled for today."

If Dean was worried, he didn't let on. "We'll wait here, then," he said, still smiling. He rolled the window back up when the man disappeared into the door at the base of the watchtower.

Sam felt his heart beating in his chest. "What d'we do?" he voiced the same thought that was on everyone else's mind. "Soon as they run our plates—"

"We're busted," the Doctor finished for him.

"Fight or flight?" Dean asked, putting it up to a vote.

Arthur gripped Excalibur, and Sam saw Merlin nodding in the rearview.

"I say fight," Clara said bravely.

"Well, we haven't really got a choice, have we?" the Doctor said. "Only way to Avalon is through that gate."

The soldier reappeared through the door, signaling to his fellow officers. Sam saw him gripping the gun that hung around his shoulder as he approached the car.

Dean caught Sam's eyes from the driver's seat. "Ready?" he asked.

Sam nodded. "Always."

"On my word," Arthur decided.

"I'm going to need you lot to step out of the car," the soldier said when Dean rolled down the window once more.

"There a problem?" Dean asked, feigning annoyed innocence.

"Just do it," the man ordered, and they all did as he said.

The patrolmen made them stand in a line next to the car and one said, "Right—pat them down, boys."

" _Excuse me_?" Clara said, reproached.

The officer looked at her in the eyes. " _All_  of them," he said more forcefully.

The officer patting Sam down started with the legs, working his way up, and it wasn't long before he got to the back of Sam's jeans, were Ruby's knife was hidden. Sam saw the man frown in curiosity before pulling out the knife and staring at Sam accusingly.

"What's this?" he asked, brandishing the knife loosely.

"Guess you can't be too careful," Sam said nonchalantly, right before Arthur shouted.

" _Now_!"

Arthur slammed his body at full force into the man before him while Clara kicked hers in the groin. Dean punched his man square in the jaw, knocking him out with one blow, while Sam snatched the knife back and forced it into his officer's gut. Merlin didn't even flinch, but the man before him and the officer in front of the Doctor were sent flying into the air as the ground beneath them was ripped from their feet.

It happened in a flash, but the other officers were already reacting: some were rushing forward, their guns trained; others were calling for backup on the walkie talkies; and at least five more were flooding out of the watchtower. Dean pulled his Colt out from his jacket and bullets were already flying as the group dove to the other side of the Land Rover for cover.

"Any bright ideas?" Dean asked as he crouched next to Sam, his back to the car door. Bullets pelted the car and, above them, a window shattered. Sam reacted to it by throwing his arms over his head for protection.

"One," the Doctor said, whipping out the sonic screwdriver and holding it up. The gunshots stopped immediately, followed by shouts and commands from the group of officers. "I'm jamming their weapons."

Dean turned around and stood up over the hood of the car, attempting to loose a few rounds, but the trigger clicked uselessly. He crouched back down. "Jammin' mine, too, Doc," he said, agitated.

"Well, I'm  _sorry_!" the Doctor said sarcastically. "Next time I'll get a screwdriver that  _discriminates_."

Sam chanced a peek around the car, watching the officers drop their guns and collect their backups: large bowie knives.

"They got knives," Sam reported. "We can't just sit here anymore—they'll come after us."

"We'll have to do this the old way," Arthur said. He tore open the car door in back of him and pulled out his sword from the backseat.

"We've got to open the gate," the Doctor reminded them. "I can't while the sonic screwdriver is jamming the weapons. It will have to be done manually."

"You leave that to me," Clara offered.

"I can cover her," Merlin assured the Doctor.

"Let's take out a few men first, shall we?" Arthur said, and Sam, Dean, and Merlin followed him around the car. He twirled his blade with his wrist, getting back his feel for wielding it, as they rushed the men. He cut one down and relieved him of his knife, tossing it to Dean on his right, who caught it effortlessly and started on the others.

One officer started towards Merlin, but the wizard snapped his neck with a simple twist of the wrist, and Merlin tossed that man's knife to Sam.

From behind them, the Doctor and Clara were standing up on the footsteps of the car, their heads peeking over the roof as they shouted encouragements and yelped cheers.

Sam felt himself losing breath, knowing that he couldn't keep exerting this much energy without keeling over, but he pushed himself. More men found their way to him, and he swung his blade or punched and kicked, but one man managed to knock the knife out of his hands. He raised his blade over his head, posed to strike, and Sam tensed against the inevitable.

The world seemed to slow down for a moment, and Sam's mind went totally blank. He thought nothing, heard nothing—but he felt something strange tug at his heart. Relief? No. Even now, he wouldn't let that wash over him. Because the man before him froze and the point of another knife ripped through his torso, splattering Sam with drops of blood. The point disappeared, and the man fell to reveal Dean; and the world resumed its normal pace.

"You good, Sammy?" Dean checked, swooping down to pick up Sam's knife before handing it back to him.

Sam gulped, and nodded. "I'm good," he lied.

"Dean! Ten o'clock!" they heard Clara shout, and Dean spun around instantly and elbowed the newcomer in the nose.

"Oooh, ouch," the Doctor cringed, as though he'd felt that one.

* * *

Meanwhile, Arthur found his way to Merlin, and they covered each other, back to back: Arthur's sword held at the ready and Merlin's palm held out warningly.

"We can take care of the rest," Arthur told him, eyeing the men as Dean and Sam fought them, readying to jump in to aid one of them at any moment. "Get Clara to the tower."

"Sure you'll survive without me?" Merlin teased.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Please. You haven't even got a sword."

"I don't exactly need one," he replied.

"No one likes a show-off, Merlin," Arthur quipped.

"That explains why everyone thinks you're a total prat."

And the broke, Arthur running towards Dean and Sam, and Merlin towards the car.

"With me," he told, and Clara hopped off the car and followed him towards the watchtower.

They made it through the battlefield with relative ease, as the Winchesters and Arthur kept the soldiers occupied, and Merlin only had to use magic to throw a man spiraling through the air once before they reached the door. The base level of the tower was equipped with two computers, one to control the gate and for communication purposes and the other to view the security camera footage. There were more controls and radios than Merlin could count, and they all looked foreign to him, but Clara seemed to know what she was doing. She typed furiously at one of the computers as Merlin kept a lookout, mostly watching Arthur's back.

"Just erasing the CCTV recording. We don't want them knowing our faces," she told Merlin as she worked, and she let out a small chuckle as though she were impressed by herself. "Wouldn't even know how to turn this thing on a couple of months ago. I guess getting sucked up into the Internet comes in handy."

Merlin took at look back at her with his nose wrinkled in confusion, but he didn't say anything, and the mechanical sound of the gate rising soon reached his ears.

"Ah! Got it!" Clara said victoriously, straightening out and grinning proudly. "How are they doing?"

Merlin turned his attention back to the fight, where the Winchesters and Arthur had taken down all of the officers.

* * *

They were still on their guard, making sure those men who were down but not dead weren't going to get back up. From the sidelines, the Doctor jumped off the Land Rover and lowered the sonic.

"Good work, team!" he shouted exuberantly as he paced towards them.

Dean let out a breath and tossed his knife to the side. "Says the cheerleader," he told the Doctor.

"Oi!  _You're welcome_."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Everyone alright?"

Arthur nodded.

"Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam told him, despite the fact that his head was pounding and he felt nauseous.

Through his vertigo, he saw Arthur clasp Dean on the shoulder and say to them both, sounding impressed, "You're very skilled. You fought bravely."

Sam turned to give Arthur his full attention, when he noticed one of the wounded officers struggling to his feet, his gun wobbling as he aimed it at Arthur's back.

"Look out!" Sam warned, but was too far away to do anything else.

Dean saw it, too. He let out a shout and didn't hesitate to push Arthur out of the way, putting himself between the barrel of the gun and the King just as a single shot rang through the air.

" _Dean_!" Sam bellowed the word like it was on fire, watching his brother stumble backwards.

He was vaguely aware of Merlin and Clara bursting through the door of the tower and running towards them.

From behind Dean, Arthur thrust his sword into the shooter's gut and turned the blade until blood sputtered out at the man's lips and the light went out in his eyes. He withdrew the sword and let the man fall limply to the ground.

Dean collapsed into Arthur, and Arthur dropped Excalibur as he struggled to support Dean's weight. He brought them carefully to the dirt, sitting upright with Dean's head cradled in his lap.

Sam was at his brother's side in an instant. "Dean," he managed to get passed the lump in his throat, his voice riddled with fear and rage and desperate love. He watched Dean take in shallow but heaving breaths. Sam's hand ghosted over his brother's bleeding wound. It didn't matter how many times this happened to them: the terror was always new—the fear that this time may be the last.

"I will not allow him to die," Arthur assured Sam, but his jaw was set and his deep blue eyes were wide with uncertainty. The others crowded around them, each looking on with solemn faces. "He saved my life—" Arthur's eyes met Sam's. "—You  _both_  saved my life. He's not dying for me. Not today."

"Don't mention it," Dean wheezed weakly, catching Sam's attention once more. He clasped his hand in his big brother's.

"Doc," Sam began. "Is there anything you can do for him?" His eyes welled up, afraid to hear the answer. "He can't die here, right? I mean, he doesn't even exist!"

"I'm sorry," the Doctor answered softly, and Sam felt his heart sink into his stomach.

"Sammy, you listen to me," Dean said, his voice low and rough. "Look at me." He was searching Sam's face, as though trying to memorize every feature. "You stick with Cas, you hear me? I don't want you finishin' these trials alone. You don't let him skip out on you, you understand? You put a cap on this once and for all—and you go live that apple pie life. You get yourself right. No more stumblin' into walls like a toddler, alright?"

"Dean—" Sam protested, but Dean cut him off.

He pushed his bravest smile onto his face. "It's gotta happen sometime, right, Sammy?"

"I said not today," Arthur told him, and Sam noted the strength and determination etched into the lines of his face. Arthur looked over his shoulder. "Merlin!" he called despite the fact that Merlin was close by.

Merlin's eyes grew confused when they met Arthur's stare.

"Can you heal him?" Arthur asked, his breath hitching despite the stone cold resolve in his tone.

Sam's eyes lit up and he took in a steadying breath. "Can you?" he dared hope.

Merlin's mouth hung open, his eyes still fixed on the King. "You're—You're asking me to use magic?"

"I'm asking you to save a man's life," Arthur said matter-of-factly. "He's saved mine for the second time. I owe him a debt, and I cannot repay that to a dead man."

Sam saw Merlin bite his lip, as though trying to hold back a smile. "You've never asked me to use magic before," he said to Arthur.

"I'm asking you now," Arthur replied.

"You guys are killin' me here," Dean managed to croak.

There was a beat, but soon Merlin nodded. Sam took in a relieved, hopeful breath: There was a chance Dean might live another day.

"Okay," Sam said sternly, looking down at Dean and giving his hand one last squeeze before letting go to make room for Merlin. "Do it."

Merlin quickly nodded and crossed to the other side of Dean, but the Doctor stopped him by holding a palm to his chest. "It will weaken you," he warned. "You don't know the consequences."

Merlin cast a look at Dean, and shook his head in thought. "I have to try."

The Doctor stepped back and Merlin crouched down next to Dean, surveying the wound and Dean's pained expression. Sam held his breath as Dean's became less frequent.

Merlin glanced up at Arthur, as though he was making sure it was okay to proceed, before placing one slender hand on top of the other and hovering them over the wound on Dean's chest. Arthur didn't take his eyes off Merlin's hands as Merlin spoke the incantation and let the magic flow from his golden irises to the tips of his fingers and into Dean's wound.

There was a pregnant pause as Dean's body went limp against Arthur's legs, and his breathing stopped.

"It—It didn't work," Arthur gasped, his blue eyes becoming bloodshot.

Sam felt his gut turn hollow.

Suddenly, Dean let out a loud gasping sound, filling his lungs with air, as he shot up from the ground to sitting position.

A smile lit up Sam's face as he leapt to his feet and pulled Dean up by the hand. "Thought we lost you for a second there," Sam said with a steadying breath. He gave Dean a smack on the shoulder, which made Dean wince. His knees faltered, so Sam put Dean's arm around his shoulders for support, despite how much the extra weight made Sam grimace. Dean was a lot weaker than he was right now, so he'd have to suck it up.

"Ah, man," Dean groaned. "I hate it when that happens."

Arthur and Merlin were still on the ground, and Merlin's eyes were averted to anywhere but Arthur's—until he dared to take a look, and realized Arthur was struggling not to smile at him. To this, Merlin let out a shaky laugh.

Sam glanced back at the car, studying the bullet holes in the metal and sunken tires. "I don't think that's going anywhere," he told them.

"We'd better start running then," Arthur decided, standing up and crossing to Dean's other side to help Sam balance the weight, which Sam was grateful for.

He looked behind his shoulder at Merlin, who getting to his feet slowly and rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. They were flecked with red when he removed his hands, and Sam left Dean to go check on him.

"You alright?" he asked in a concerned tone, to which Merlin gave him a nod and a feeble smile, but he was rocking back and forth on this legs, and the nod must have caused lightheadedness because he fell into Sam.

"Whoa, alright, I got ya!" Sam said, putting Merlin's arm around his shoulder. He felt his knees wobble slightly under the sudden weight, so Clara and the Doctor came to relieve him. They supported Merlin between them.

"We've got him," Clara told Sam. "And we'd better go before the backup arrives. There's no way we'll win another round with three men who aren't at one-hundred-percent."

Sam furrowed his brows at her, wondering how she knew it was three, but he quickly shook the curiosity away. Clara was right; they couldn't afford to stay there any longer.

The Doctor stared into the distance beyond the gate, nodding up the hill. "There's a line of trees. That should give us cover. Come on," he told them, and the group started in that direction.

* * *

Arthur's eyes went wide as, out of nowhere, embers sprung into life, and a small fire made the twigs and dead leaves feeding it curl and blacken. Merlin puckered his lips, attempting to stop himself from grinning too widely when Arthur met his eyes from across the fire. He looked at Merlin in genuine wonderment and fascination for only a fraction of a moment, and then he shrugged passively and leaned back against the log behind him.

"Is that all?" he asked, nonplussed. "And they call you  _Great_? Honestly, Merlin, I can do that with a rock and a blade."

"This is faster!" Merlin defended.

"Fine, then. A  _sharp_  blade."

Merlin tilted his head to the side and raised his brows at Arthur. Then he looked back to the fire between them and his eyes glowed the same orange as the flames, which immediately sprung higher and licked towards Arthur. Arthur flattened himself against the log quickly before the flames died away.

" _Mer_ lin!"

"Don't be such a dollophead!" Merlin snapped back, and Arthur chuckled.

Sam entered the circle of light around the fire pit, and his large shadow stretched and danced across the trees as he sat down on the dirt and warmed his hands. He looked at Arthur with a handsome grin. "Thought you said magic was evil?" he teased.

Arthur shrugged again. "But it's  _Merlin_!" he said, as though Merlin were the only one he could ever trust with magic, but then he appeared to roll this thought around in his mind for a moment. "And, perhaps, there are those who practice magic just as Merlin," he continued, as though his mind were changing on the matter. "Perhaps it can be used for good."

The corner of Merlin's lips twitched upward as he gazed at Arthur from across the crackling fire. He had waited so long to hear those words from Arthur, and he scarcely believed he finally had. They were all he'd ever wanted. It felt like a dream.

His eyes flashed behind Arthur to the Doctor, who was leaned against a tree in the semi-darkness, trying to appear like he wasn't eavesdropping as he inspected Excalibur with the sonic screwdriver. He fixed Merlin with a hard stare, and Merlin's face instantly fell. His eyes flickered back to the fire and he poked the embers with a stick.

"How is your brother?" Arthur asked Sam, catching Merlin's attention once more.

Sam looked behind him at Dean, who was snoozing against a tree trunk, before turning back and answering the question. "Fine," he said with a shrug. "He's had worse, trust me. Just needs a good night's rest before he can get back on his feet."

Arthur waved it away. "Feet, I understand," he said. "But can he kneel?"

Sam furrowed his brow and shot Merlin a quick befuddled glance. Merlin grinned back at him.

"Uh," Sam stammered, completely caught off guard. "What?"

* * *

The Doctor and Clara stood off to the side in the shadows, intently watching what was happening before the fire. Dean and Sam were kneeling in front of Arthur, who had been handed his sword from Merlin behind him, and was touching the blunt side to each of the Winchesters' shoulders.

"Arise, Sir Dean," Arthur was saying, "Knight of Camelot."

The smile on Dean's face was absolute as he exchanged excited glances with Sam.

"Arise, Sir Samuel," Arthur said next, "Knight of Camelot."

Arthur sheathed his sword into his belt as the two Knights stood up before him, and Merlin caught Sam's eyes. He couldn't help but to smile as brightly and as proudly as Sam was himself. From the sidelines, the others burst into applause and laughter as the makeshift ceremony ended.

"Awesome," was all Dean could say after he stood up, grinning still as Sam let out a breathy laugh.

"Yeah, but, uh," Sam started, almost guiltily. "You know we can't stay and fight for you—for Camelot, I mean."

Arthur nodded and raised his palm to Sam. "I understand completely. But, know this: You will be remembered in Court and amongst my Knights, in every council meeting and in every story told about Camelot for as long its stories are told. I assure you this. You will be remembered for your fearlessness, sacrifices, and, above all, loyalty."

Merlin watched as Dean and Sam shuffled around in their shoes, evidently not comfortable with so much attention or gratitude directed toward them.

"Uh, okay," Dean said, and couldn't help but ask, "How?"

"Although I cannot give you seats at my Table, I can give your namesake to the Round Table itself," Arthur told them, and Merlin was surprised by these words. He looked at Arthur in delighted shock. Arthur looked over his shoulder at him. "You will see to this, Merlin?" he asked. For a moment, Merlin wondered why Arthur couldn't instill this himself, and his heart sunk when he remembered; nonetheless, he nodded.

"As will I. We'll sort out all those legends," the Doctor promised, and Arthur looked grateful.

"The Winchester Round Table," the Doctor continued. He was still beaming.

Arthur nodded. "Indeed. You—all of you—represent everything the Round Table stands for." The turned to Dean and Sam: "Love and courage, dexterity and intelligence." His gaze met the Doctor's: "And progression—which reveals the success of all things." He gave a noble smile at all of them. "The Winchester Round Table. You've saved my life twice. It's the least I can do for all you've done for me, and for Camelot. And, if not for that, I assume that is where the namesake of the city that will one day replace Camelot comes from." He looked to the Doctor and shrugged.

"Oh, well, someone catches on quickly, doesn't he?" Clara said.

"Wait, so you're naming the Round Table after the city that's named after the Round Table that's named after us?" Dean said in a mouth full, rattling his head in confusion. "My head hurts."

The group broke, readying themselves for a few hours of sleep, and Merlin saw the Doctor take a seat on a log on the outskirts of the camp. He said they needed someone to watch over them, just in case; and he said he would take the first shift that night. He had managed to get Arthur's sword back and was studying it with interest.

As everyone else laid down, some on the dirt next to the fire, others propped against the trunks of trees, attempting to get comfortable, Merlin paced towards the Doctor. He presented him a bottle of water—a peace offering. The Doctor took it but did not take a sip, clearly willing to hear Merlin out.

"I'm sorry for what I said to you in the library," Merlin said honestly. "It was wrong of me."

The Doctor inclined his head a bit to the side, inviting Merlin to sit next to him, which Merlin did after a beat.

"You never gave up on Clara, even when all seemed lost," he continued, fiddling slightly with his hands. "And I will not give up on Arthur." He finally managed to meet the Doctor's eyes. "If there is a way to bring him home at the end of all this, I will take it."

The Doctor regarded him dryly. "Even if it kills you?"

Merlin considered this for a moment. "It's better than an eternity alone—watching everyone I love fade from me while I remain. I assumed you could appreciate that."

The Doctor shuffled slightly in his seat. "You make it sound like a bad thing. It's not so bad," he said, sounding as though he had convinced himself that was truth a long time ago.

Merlin took in a breath. "Doctor, you are the most extraordinary man I have ever known, and I am grateful for you. But I will not become you."

When the Doctor met his eyes again, he looked somewhat hurt for a moment, and then his gaze flashed with understanding; and Merlin knew he was forgiven.

"You were wrong, by the way," the Doctor told him after a short silence. "I didn't see Amy back in the manor."

Merlin furrowed his brow. "Then who?"

But the Doctor didn't answer. "Before . . . You said you could sense things—other people who have magic?" he said instead.

Merlin shrugged. "Not always," he admitted. "And not with everyone. Gaius used to say it was an ability I hadn't tapped into yet. Perhaps, in time, I will be able to grasp it fully."

The Doctor tilted his head to the side, almost sizing Merlin up. "What does it feel like?"

Merlin considered this for a moment, until he decided on, "Echoes. Like something more—something physical—is there, but you just can't see it."

"And what about Clara?" the Doctor asked, dropping the volume in his tone and crowding in. "Do you get any  _echoes_  from her?"

Merlin narrowed his eyes, not sure what to say. "No," he said after a beat. "Should I?"

"You tell me."

" _No_ ," he said again with more conviction. The only thing he was unsure of was why the Doctor was asking. "Why? Doctor, do you not trust her?"

The Doctor sat up straight again as though nothing out of the ordinary had just happened, and he waved the thought away. "'Course I do."

"Then what is it?"

"Nothing," he insisted. "Just curious. Now, you should get some sleep." He looked Merlin up and down again, taking in his condition. "You need it."

Still casting him a confused expression, Merlin stood up and made his way back to the fire, where he laid down, his stomach to the fallen leaves, across from Arthur. With his arms crossed as a pillow beneath his cheek, he slipped into sleep watching the Doctor examining the sword more closely than he had before.


	17. Chapter 17

At last, the dense wood gave way, and the group trudged out of the tress and into the bright daylight, which was no longer scattered by a canopy of leaves. At once, they squinted down the hill at the lake below, and followed the water to the Isle of Avalon on the horizon.

Merlin looked at the King beside him, who had not looked at the island, but kept his gaze fixed on the shore.

"This is it, then?" Arthur said in a breath, leaving his mouth agape as he stared transfixed. It occurred to Merlin that Arthur had never actually seen this place before, but he wondered if he could feel it, somewhere deep down in his bones, the connection between his flesh and the last patch of earth he had ever known before his life left him.

"Spare us the  _This is the Field Where I Died_  speech, alright?" Dean told him, slapping Arthur on the back in what was supposed to be a playful gesture, but it only unsteadied Arthur slightly, before starting down the hill. The others followed him, side-stepping on the loose dirt, and Merlin felt Arthur hang back for a moment.

He looked up at Arthur, about to beckon for him, when he saw a peculiar glint in his eyes. Merlin had only seen Arthur afraid a handful of times, so it was an important enough expression for Merlin to recognize on the spot. It was the same fear that Merlin felt, that he would once again leave the shores of Avalon without Arthur—with only a memory and bones under the waves.

But no.

He'd already promised to save Arthur, and he wouldn't fail again. He would get it right this time.

"Arthur," he called, and Arthur's blue gaze swept away from the shore and latched on to Merlin's.

The King cleared his throat and, without a word, started down the hill.

* * *

"It isn't much of a doorway."

"That's because it isn't."

Sherlock tore his eyes off the lake and looked behind him at the road built into the hillside, just in time for a line of cars to zip by, headed towards the quaint neighborhood situated at the top of the hill. Someone who lived in one of those cottages must own a rowboat, especially this close to a lake. It was only statistics.

"The island?" Cas said, catching on as he looked across the water. There was a tower in the center of the island, a looming monolith that appeared as though it were forged out of the bedrock of the lake. Even from a distance, one could tell how old the tower was.

"Yes," said Sherlock, a thought occurring to him. "Can you get us to the island?"

Sherlock prepared him to be zapped off as Castiel reached out with two fingers, but his feet stayed planted firmly on the ground when the tips of those fingers reached his forehead, and Sherlock opened his eyes in wonder.

"When I said  _island_ , I did in fact mean  _island_."

"Something's blocking me," Castiel told him, looking as though he didn't quite know what went wrong himself, but one thing was clear to him: "We'll have to go over manually."

"We need a boat," Sherlock said, accepting this. He spun around on his heels towards the overgrowth and the small patch of wooded area beside the lake. "Perhaps in there?" he wondered, bounding towards the line of trees with Cas in tow.

"There's a neighborhood above—with children, and mothers and fathers eager to take their children fishing, and teenagers wanting to sneak off for a moonlit row to get away from their parents," Sherlock rambled as he crouched low, peering through the brush. "Not everyone has room in their house for a rowboat—Ah!"

Situated inside a bush was a mossy-colored tarp, covering a narrow lump beneath. Sherlock crossed to the back and motioned for Castiel to walk around.

"Help me get this out," he said, and the two worked on dragging the wooden boat out of the trees. Sherlock disposed of the tarp on the grass and inspected the state of the boat quickly.

"It hasn't been used in few years," he said, pointing towards the rot and dirt around the edges. Apart from that, the boat had no holes in it and appeared to be functional. "Note the moss growing inside—but it should have a trip or two left in it."

Then something glistening caught his eye, and tossed the two paddles laid across the seat aside and reached for the sparkling object. He stood up and revealed a rather blunt sword.

"Spear fishing?" Castiel joked, but it was lost on Sherlock.

"This sword had only recently been placed here," he said aloud, narrowing his eyes on the blade. "It's old—perhaps the oldest thing I've ever seen . . ." He let that thought sink in, turning the handle around in his fist and memorizing the elaborate markings. "But it hadn't been here all the time. It's clean."

He relinquished the blade to Castiel, who held it gingerly in both hands as he scrutinized it.

Sherlock leaned down next to the boat and ran his hand along the overgrowth. "The moss is indented," he told Cas. "It would have grown around the sword otherwise."

"Someone wanted us to have it," Cas said definitively.

"For that, they'd have to know we were coming," said Sherlock incredulously. He considered something: "Perhaps they did."

"Who?"

Sherlock stood up and dug his shoes into the grass, giving himself enough leverage as he heaved the boat towards the water. "Take the sword," he grunted as Cas watched him curiously. "You should never leave behind a helpful gift from the Doctor."

"The Doctor?" Cas repeated, but his words were drowned out as the boat splashed into the lake and Sherlock hopped inside.

"Are you coming?" he asked absentmindly, placing the paddles in the water on either side of him.

Cas took one last look at the sword before handing it to Sherlock and stepping into the ankle-deep water. He kicked the boat off and jumped inside, only to find Sherlock grinning at him smugly once he'd situated himself and the boat had stopped rocking.

Sherlock handed him the paddles.

"Good," he said. "You can row."

* * *

"We're just going to go across?" Clara asked, her arms folded across her chest with a thin brow raised as she looked at the Doctor, who was ankle-deep in water next to the rowboat.

"Well,  _yes_ ," he said as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "The boat was left here for a reason."

"Uh, yeah, by whoever's runnin' the show around here," Dean said, stepping up next to Clara.

"Don't you at least want to see what's on the other side?" the Doctor asked, gesturing widely towards the island.

"Sherlock and Castiel are working on the door," Merlin told him. "They told us we'd only have to be in the same area, remember? Why shouldn't we stay put?"

"Kid's makin' sense, Doc," Dean agreed and, despite the glare he shot for being called a kid again, Merlin was grateful. He saw how nervous being in the shadow of the island made Arthur—how often he glimpsed towards it when he thought no one was looking. Many times had Merlin stood on the shores of Avalon, but never did he cross to the Isle. He didn't want to find out what lay in the tower; this day was no exception.

The Doctor looked wistfully towards the tower. "But—but—" he stammered. "But what if there's a clue we're missing? Something that can get us out of here once and for all?"

"No more doorways?" Sam wondered, appearing to turn this over in his mind. He shrugged towards his brother. "Worth the risk?"

"All I'm saying is, the boat was left here for  _some_  purpose," the Doctor said, invigorated by Sam's neutrality. "We should find out why."

Clara let out an almighty sigh. "Fine," she said, jouncing towards the boat. Before stepping off the drop on the grass, she shot out her hand, and the Doctor grinned as he helped her step dryly into the boat. She sat down on the far bench and stared at Dean daringly. "Might be fun."

"Might be a suicide mission," Dean shot back, sharing a brief look with Sam out of the side of his eyes. "But what the Hell?" He started towards the boat, too, muttering softly, "You sure this thing can fit all of us?"

"Excellent," the Doctor said, beaming.

"Well, I guess I'm in," Sam agreed as he walked.

"Merlin, Arthur," the Doctor said, looking at them with pleading eyes. "We can't do this one without you. Your level, remember?"

How could Merlin forget?

He gaped, trying to find something to say to get them all out of the boat, but his mind came up empty. How could he win against the Doctor's curiosity?

"There might be answers in there, Merlin," the Doctor said off Merlin's hesitation. "You could find what you've been looking for." He looked pointedly at Arthur, and Merlin followed the Doctor's gaze.

Merlin thinned his lips as he looked at Arthur, wondering if the Doctor was right. If he went to the Isle, would he find something to bring Arthur back the Camelot with him? Or would he lose Arthur forever?

"Arthur—"

"Get in the boat, Merlin," Arthur said, his mind made up. Merlin watched him stride towards the water, but he paused for only a fraction of a second before stepping in. When he looked back the sorcerer, he seemed relieved that he didn't wash away beneath the surface. "Come on. Don't be such a girl."

"What's wrong with girls?" Clara said defensively and Arthur muttered an apology as Merlin summoned his bravado and stepped into the boat. The Doctor and Arthur pushed it off the sand before scrambling in, too, and Merlin preformed an incantation to set the boat's course.

It glided across the choppy water for some time, headed towards the shadow of the tower, which was now blocking out the fading sun. When the boat reached the shadow, the water suddenly became calm, and Merlin looked over the edge into the stillness. A mirror of himself peered back, transparent and tainted blue, rippling slightly in the disturbance of the moving boat.

Something small touched down in the center of his reflection, causing his image to break apart. He followed the ball of light upwards as it rejoined the other globes, bouncing and zipping and hovering like hummingbirds over the boat.

Merlin's companions seemed oblivious to the lights, and Sam shot him a slightly concerned look when he saw Merlin suddenly grinning wildly. He leaned in to Sam and Arthur, his palm outstretched towards the faeries.

"Look," he said, muttering a word in the ancient tongue that allowed the others to witness the Sídhe. Everyone in the boat shot up to attention at once, causing the boat to rock back and forth with a jolt before settling again. They looked around themselves with mixed expressions: fascination and wonder and elation and, in Dean's case, unnerved bellicosity.

The lights formed a tunnel around them and, while all eyes watched them dance, Merlin was looking at Arthur to gauge his reaction. The golden light shimmered on his face as he watched them in amazement and, for once, speechlessness. It made Merlin's heart flutter, and he decided to give them a real show.

His eyes flashed, slowing down time by only a few milliseconds, which was enough to reveal the tiny blue bodies contained in the ball of light. They hummed slightly as they whisked through the air around them, and the Doctor let out a laugh. He leaned in close to Clara and pointed out a faerie that had caught his eye for one reason or another, and she pointed at it, too, to make sure she was looking at the right one. Sam was chuckling as he looked in every direction, not wanting to miss a thing, and Dean had dropped his worry and was now gazing around curiously, seeming to give the small beings a chance because they were making his little brother smile.

"What are they?" Arthur asked as Merlin released the faeries from slow motion, and the boat continued to slice through the water at a normal pace.

He looked at Arthur with lingering flecks of gold in his eyes. "They're called the Sídhe—protectors of Avalon," he explained, aware of the others listening in. "Few men have ever seen them."

His smile faded softly when Arthur broke eye contact, and Merlin thought,  _You've finally met them. Too late, but better late than never_.

* * *

They beat the sundown to the Isle, but only just. Dusk had fallen around them, and Sherlock saw the glow of the lights from houses on the hill across the water as he and Castiel hiked up the mount and searched for a way into the tower. Eventually, they found a stairwell at the base of the monolith that lead downward, and Sherlock attempted to shine his light into the abyss, but his flashlight wouldn't turn on. They started down the stone steps for as long as they could before losing what little light the pink sun provided them, until Sherlock saw a torch on the wall, which Castiel lit.

They descended for something close to ten minutes, passed the cobwebs and scurrying bugs, until the air became much thinner and colder and the sloshing sounds of waves outside were no longer an echo. Sherlock held the sword they had found in one hand while he extended the other arm, which supported the torch. In the soft glow of its light, he saw the stairs made way for a landing and, after alerting Cas to that fact, he bounded towards the bottom.

However, the room was empty, save for something that looked suspiciously like a large stone alter in the middle and small creatures that raced away from the light and into the cracks in the walls. Sherlock's face fell as he handed the torch off to Castiel.

"It's empty," Cas said, looking around the room warily.

"No," corrected Sherlock. "It was empti _ed_."

He strode towards the far wall, which had large crevices built into it like shelves. He ran his hand along the base of a shelf, coming back with nothing but a thick layer of dust.

"A very long time ago," he finished, turning around to look back at the alter. With his arms slackened, the sword gripped in his fist dragged across the stone floor, leaving a thin white line in its wake.

His mind was racing and, suddenly, he knew where he was.

"This is tomb," he explained. "In Ancient Egypt, Pharaohs would be buried with all their worldly possessions—gold, vases, food, mummified cats, even their living servants—in case anything was needed in the next life."

Castiel nodded. "Yes," he said, looking around the empty space. "I remember Moses' complaints."

Sherlock powered through that comment. "I believe this was the same principle—only the possessions were stolen. Who knows by whom or how long ago?"

"There's no coffin," Castiel pointed out.

"Yes, I'd noticed that," Sherlock told him, moving to another wall and feeling around the jagged stone for any gives. "Another thing about Egyptian tombs—they were almost never a single room. The body would be contained in a hidden room. That way, bandits wouldn't find it."

His fingers felt a horizontal slit in the stone. It was small, but too perfectly shaped to happen naturally.

"Come here," he beckoned. "Bring the torch."

Castiel shown the light closer, and Sherlock got a better look at the slit. It was only a few inches long and hardly a centimeter wide. It had to be some sort of lock, but for what key? Suddenly, he remembered the sword gripped in his hand, and he held it up, comparing the dimensions to that of the lock.

"Could it be?" he wondered aloud, and decided to try his luck. He leveled the sword and slid it into the lock. It was a perfect fit.

A loud booming noise sounded from behind the wall, and Sherlock retracted the sword just in time for the stone to slide out of the way, revealing another set of stairs behind the entrance.

Sherlock chortled and started down the steps, but he presently realized Castiel wasn't in his wake. He turned back to the angel.

"Are you coming or not?" he asked, perturbed.

"I can't," Cas told him, holding out the torch in offering. "It's warded."

"Against?"

Cas narrowed his eyes into the darkness beyond. "Everything."

"Evidentially, not me," Sherlock told him.

"You're human," Cas said as Sherlock picked up another torch from its place on the wall and brushed the cobwebs away. He walked back up the half dozen steps he gone down and touched the tip of his torch to Castiel's, drawing back the flame.

"I'll go alone, then," he said.

"Sherlock—"

"Oh, I'll be quite alright," Sherlock told him nonchalantly, holding up the sword again. "I've got this."

Cas seemed unsettled, but he nodded, and Sherlock disappeared into the darkness.

* * *

The others had made their way into the tomb, too, only this time it was adorned with relics of a world long passed. They found jewels and artwork and silks and treasures, hundreds of things that didn't belong to only one person but, it appeared, to generations of the Earth. Dean wore a crown lopsided on his head while he helped Clara tie a pearl necklace around her neck. He'd thrown an embroidered dress at Sam, telling him it was just his style. Arthur had founded a collection of daggers, and Merlin was flipping through a delicate tome of magic with bright eyes. The Doctor frantically warned them not to touch anything, but was met with childish chuckles and unruliness.

"Any ideas on what all this might be?" the Doctor asked, having given up on ordering them about and sat down next to Merlin.

Merlin closed the book, causing a puff of dust to fly around him, and placed it on the floor beside him next to an ivory statue of a cherub. "This is Avalon, after all," he said with a shrug and hugged one knee to his chest. "It's a place of great magic—where spirits cross to their final resting place. It's only natural they leave things behind."

"Tokens of humanity," the Doctor said with a grin as he leaned back on his elbows. "They'll need to get a bigger room."

"Hey, guys," Sam said from across the room, and Merlin saw him leaning down and inspecting the wall. "I think I found something."

They all dropped their treasures and met Sam, who found the same lock Sherlock had. The Doctor took out his sonic and flashed it over the slit.

"Getting some readings from the other side," he reported.

Dean placed his ear to the stone and knocked on it a few times. "Sounds hollow back there."

"What do you think it is?" Clara wondered.

The Doctor gave Merlin a fleeting look. "A bigger room," he said.

They searched the tomb for something like might fit the lock, until finally Sam caught sight of something that had been right in front of them the entire time; or, perhaps, tucked in Arthur's belt the entire time.

The sword fit, and the wall opened to the same dark stairwell, which they descended rapidly.

* * *

This staircase was much shorter than the last, and it wasn't long before Sherlock hit the bottom level of the tomb. The first thing he saw was a circle of stone chairs coming up from out of the floor, and he walked in between the nearest two towards the center, where a massive stone crypt was set in the dead center of the circle.

And he realized at once that he'd seen this layout before.

He took another sweeping look around and let out a deep chuckle.

* * *

They looked around at the dusty circle of chairs, and nothing could be heard but their shallow breaths in the great effort it now took to salvage any oxygen. The room had been closed off for centuries and it was so deep beneath sea level that it could never hold a living creature—especially not six fully-grown humans.

Merlin looked behind him at Sam, who was mopping the sweat off his brow and taking in deep swallows of air. He was feeling the full effects of this, no matter how hard he tried to look normal, and Merlin felt a slight dizziness himself. He supposed he and Sam were alike in that way: neither of them would admit how weak they felt at the moment.

"That's my throne," Arthur's voice boomed across the walls, and he ran towards the far side of the circle, where one seat stood apart from the rest. While the others were thick and cold, this was made of wood and cushion and carved with an elaborate design. It was beaten and worn by the years, but somehow it had impossibly survived, and Merlin recognized it almost as quickly as Arthur had.

The group stepped towards the outer circle, watching as Arthur ran his fingers down the wood.

Dean was shaking his head. "How—?"

Arthur couldn't help himself from sitting on the throne, leaning back as he surveyed the room, and Merlin's memory flickered with images of Court and Council Hall. If he dreamed hard enough, the rest of the dark room fell away, and Arthur's golden hair was shining in the sunlight that drifted lazily through the windows of the great hall of the citadel. Where he should be.

But the Doctor saying his name cut his reverie short, and Merlin caught the morose look on the Time Lord's expression. He nodded towards the center of the circle, where Merlin had overlooked the large crypt. But he saw it now, and his stomach dropped almost instantly.

He dreaded walking towards it, afraid to find out whose coffin it was. However, he found his feet headed in that direction, slowly driven by a morbid curiosity that he couldn't contain. He didn't want to know—but he  _had_  to know.

He saw the dragon insignia chiseled into the top of the crypt long before he halted before it. There was pressure building in his eyes, threatening to overflow, as he traced the Pendragon crest with his fingertip, and then placed his palm flat on the cold surface—under which Arthur's body lay in wait.

"This isn't just a tomb," the Doctor said softly as he and the others made their way around the crypt. "It's  _Arthur's_  tomb."

Merlin shook his head. He didn't want it to be true, because that meant . . .

He looked up at Arthur, who was now leaning forward on his throne, a look of anguish and concern about him. Merlin felt his mouth go dry.

Clara placed a grievous hand over her mouth as she stared at the stone coffin. Dean, meanwhile, had his eyes on Arthur, his jaw set, while Sam was looking at Merlin with tender eyes. The Doctor, too, was looking at Merlin, even though the sorcerer's eyes were still latched onto the King's.

"The only body left in Avalon."

* * *

_The Rise._

The words were etched into the floor alongside the image of a painted sword glowing gold. Sherlock ran his fingers along it, feeling the chipped dust from the paint scatter beneath his touch, and he brought his fingers up and rubbed the soot away between them.

Then he crossed to the center, seeing the dragon crest in the surface of the coffin. He had already attempted to open the lid, but it had been too heavy. If only Castiel had come . . .

Nonetheless, Sherlock assumed whosever bones were encased the stone had deteriorated into nothing centuries ago, so little could be procured from looking inside it, anyway.

He left the crypt behind and crossed to the seat across from the throne—the one he recalled from the painting to be Mordred's chair in the Round Table. He looked at the base of the chair, seeing the words  _the fall_  running towards the center of the circle, but there was no sword painted next to it.

He dropped down, feeling around for the roughness of paint particles, but found none; and it didn't look like there had ever been any in the first place. He stood up again, his gaze on the sword he'd placed atop the crypt, and then he peered back down at the words at his feet.

"The last piece of the puzzle," he thought aloud.

He retrieved the sword and brought it back to what represented the Judas' seat, kneeling down again and attempting to peer around the crypt so he could align the real sword perfectly with the painted one.

He set it down, part of him not really expecting anything to happen, so he was taken when the stone beneath the sword began to illuminate. It was contained at first, until the light grew and darkened . . .

Turning black.

* * *

"He's not in there," Merlin insisted, denial overcoming him as he shook his head down at the Pendragon crest. "He's not. He's been with us."

"Merlin—" the Doctor said, his tone exasperated.

"He's not!" Merlin shouted with absolute conviction. "I'll prove it." He placed the heels of his palms flat against the side of the crypt, right over the crease of lid, and began to heave. The stone didn't budge, so he but his back to it and pressed all his weight into it, but his efforts were fruitless.

"Sam," he grunted for help, but Sam only shook his head to the side and gave Merlin big, sad eyes.

Merlin slackened against the stone, aware of all eyes on him, and his bones ached under his skin. He let out a heavy breath and looked over his shoulder at the one person he could rely on at this time. However, when he looked at Arthur, the King's was emitting a soft golden glow. Merlin turned his entire body around to get a better look.

"Arthur—" he breathed and, finally, Arthur looked down at his hands, alerted to what was happening. He raised his other palm, looking between them with the same fear in his eyes that Merlin had seen on the shore.

He stood up from his throne quickly. "Merlin, what's happening to me?" he asked, his voice calm but shaking.

Merlin crossed around the crypt, not taking his eyes off Arthur. "No," he whispered, remembering how the spirits back in the manor had burst into flames. The ground began to tremor slightly as Merlin's grief turned to anger. " _No_!"

His eyes caught the sword at Arthur's side, which was glowing more immensely than the rest of Arthur. He pointed towards it. "The sword!" he said, and Arthur stopped looking at his hands long enough to take the sword out and study it. It was glowing white-hot now.

As the light around him began to intensify, his gaze met Merlin's, looking at him as though it was for the last time.

But Merlin wouldn't allow it. He rushed towards Arthur and did the only thing he could think of. He reached for the sword and ripped it from Arthur's hands, despite the others' shouts for him not to; and the metal of the handle seared his skin, causing him to let out a cry and drop the sword to the floor with a clamor.

It did not bounce when it hit the ground, and it landed pointing the center of the circle, next to the two words inscribed in the stone beneath them. The glowing light shot from the tip of the sword towards the crypt and, on the other side, Dean pushed Sam out of the way as a black light from the painted sword directly across sprang to meet the gold in the middle.

* * *

Sherlock leapt backwards and out of the way as a bright golden light streamed through the circle, rendering his torch useless because he could now see every inch of the room with perfectly clarity. From the sword he had placed down, the black light snaked towards the crypt, and the two lights encompassed the stone, blending together.

Then, like a light switch, the beams were gone, leaving Sherlock in the dark by comparison.

He blinked into it, his eyes readjusting, as he gaped at the crypt. In the passed few days, he had seen and done many things that had opened his eyes to a new world; but part of his mind could rationalize them and accept them for what they were.

How, then, could he explain what had just happened?

* * *

There was a golden light filtering down the stairwell, but it was much too late in the day to be the sun. Castiel left his place next to the opposing staircase that Sherlock had gone down and looked upwards towards the source of the light, but he could see nothing close.

Dropping his torch, he transported himself up the surface and, now standing on the grass on the island at the foot of the tower, he realized the lake had been glowing.

But, no, it wasn't the lake . . .

Looking closer, he saw the light had come from millions of little lights swarming around the surface of the water, swooping and rising and causing foam and waves.

Castiel looked across the mass of moving lights, towards the bridge on the hill over the shore. In the glow, he could make out the figure of man, standing completely still and staring back at him. Behind the man, the cars continued to pass by as though the passengers could not see what was happening.

Cas narrowed his eyes, trying to get a better look at the old, bearded man across the way.

* * *

The lights had gone out, leaving them in the relative darkness, and Merlin nearly gave himself whiplash as he turned to the place where Arthur would be.

He let out a shaky breath, a smile cracking his face when he saw Arthur standing there—solid and whole and looking back at Merlin. He was no longer luminescent, either, which was even better news. Merlin let out something between a laugh and a sob, and his heart made its way out of his throat and back into his ribcage.

"Your hands bleeding," Sam told him, nodding to the burnt flesh caused by the sword.

"It is," Arthur said, holding Merlin's hand up by the wrist and studying it.

"I'm fine," Merlin told him honestly, feeling his smile widen at the physical contact. "I'm  _great_."

The wind began to pick up out of nowhere and, from the base of the crypt, a white light overtook the room. It slipped around each of them, pulling them towards the center of the light. It was time to move on, and they let the light take them.

* * *

"Castiel!"

He turned around to see Sherlock stumble out of the entrance of the tower, his breath strained as it came in and out. It appeared like he had run all the way up.

It distracted Cas, but then he remembered the man on the opposite side of the lake, and the lights. He turned back towards the water, but the glow had gone, leaving only the light of the moon as it reflected off the waves. Cas strained to catch a glimpse of the distant man in the darkness but, even if he were still standing there, Castiel could no longer see him.

"Did you get tired of waiting?" Sherlock teased, standing next to Cas on the grass.

"I thought I saw something," Cas told him. "I  _did_  see something. A light."

This caught Sherlock attention. "What manner of light?" When Castiel told him, Sherlock barely gave a response. He simply gave a soft, thoughtful hum.

"The others aren't here anymore," Cas told him. "They've moved."

"Where now?"

Cas gave one last hopeful look across the water. "Still in England," he said, giving in.

With a flutter, they found themselves standing beneath a clear, starry sky amongst rolling hills. There was a faint light of a building in the distance, and a line of cars driving away from it. Not far from the building, there was a giant structure, which Sherlock was looking upon with wide eyes.

He took a step forward before turning his head back to Castiel.

" _There_?" he said in near disbelief.

Cas nodded, and Sherlock looked back towards the formation.

"Which one of them, do you think, is connected to  _that_?"


	18. Chapter 18

Sam blinked his eyes opened to the darkness. It wasn't pitch dark, and he adjusted to the light quickly: a soft glow of orange light from some torches hanging on the wall, mixed with a sickly green hue emitting from somewhere to Sam's left. The ceiling above him looked like it was made of rock, and for a moment he thought they didn't leave the tomb, but he looked around himself and saw different surroundings. At first, it looked like he was in the inside of a cave, but there were pillars between the ceiling and floor, and in the very center of the room was an enormous, glowing cube with an elaborate circular design on the sides. Sam realized the green light was coming from the box.

Merlin's face came into view above him, and the wizard offered Sam his hand. Blinking away his confusion, Sam allowed himself to be pulled up. After muttering thanks, he located his brother, still passed out on the ground a few feet away, and shook him awake.

Dean groaned as his eyes fluttered open. "Time to make the donuts?" he said groggily, sitting up and peering around.

"Something like," Sam told him as he helped Dean to his feet.

The others had come to in the meantime, and they were all looking around the empty room in trepidation and wonder. However, Sam noticed, the Doctor seemed to be looking for something amongst the walls and loose chunks of rock littering the great room. His eyes kept darting back to the giant box anxiously, like he expected something to pop out of it.

"Where are we?" Arthur wondered.

At his side, Merlin pointed towards the box. "I was wondering about  _that_."

"It's called the Pandorica," the Doctor answered him absently, slowly circling around the box at a safe distance.

"What does it  _do_?" Clara asked, peering at it with a mixture of speculation and distrust.

"It opens," the Doctor said curtly, but not very helpfully. "But only from the outside."

"Wait, Pandorica?" Sam asked, getting a feel for the word. It sounded familiar. "Like Pandora's Box?"

"What is Pandora's Box?" asked Merlin.

"It's a Greek myth," explained Sam. "Pandora was the first human. The leader of the gods, Zeus, gave her this box and told her not to open it."

"But she doesn't listen," offered Clara.

Sam nodded. "Right. She opens it and lets out all the bad things in the world, and the only thing left in the box is—"

"Hope," the Doctor interjected. He had come back around the box and was now standing in front of it with one arm crossed over this chest, propping up his other at the elbow as he thought. "But this box wasn't designed for hope. It's a prison—the perfect prison. Once inside, the captive can never die or age or sleep. An eternity of nothingness. It was created to hold one man—it was created  _because_  of one man, and if anyone ever released him, they'd be letting the evil back into the universe, because there was only hope  _without_  him."

"Who was it made for?" Dean wondered.

The Doctor turned around to face the group with a dark expression.

"Me."

" _You_?" Clara asked as though she didn't believe what she was hearing. She tucked her hair behind her ear and crossed her arms definitively. "But you're the  _good_  guy."

"Every bad guy thinks he's the hero," the Doctor told her, looking off.

Merlin let out a disbelieving breath of laughter. "If it is a prison for you, it must have been built to get you out of the way—so you wouldn't stop something awful from happening," he reasoned. "Clara is right, Doctor. There's no evil in the box, no matter what the myth tells. It's just a story."

"Remember what I told you about stories, Merlin," the Doctor countered, spinning around again so his back was facing them, and Merlin's face fell.

"It was designed by all my enemies—every creature I ever stopped, every race I ever battled, every planet I ever destroyed," the Doctor told them. "They drew me here, and created a beacon for themselves so they'd know when I arrived. So they could take me hostage."

"Well, what the Hell was the manor for?" Dean inquired. "I mean, we all got our own level, right? I kinda just assumed the manor had somethin' to do with you. You're tellin' me this one's for you instead?"

"That was a meeting place," the Doctor told him airily. He now had the sonic screwdriver out and was running the tip against the Pandorica. "A secluded place where we could all find each other and learn the rules of the game." He checked the readings on his screwdriver and turned back to them. "It's empty," he said, but he didn't seem relieved about it.

Sam tensed, too. He had a feeling it wouldn't stay empty for long, especially since the guy it was designed for had been brought back to it.

There was a sudden onslaught of footfalls. They echoed against the damp walls quickly, coming from a shaft in the cavern. Sam looked in the direction of the noise, and it wasn't long before he saw a silhouette of a woman on the ground. She was running towards them, her panting breaths hissing in the darkness. She rushed out of the mouth of the entranceway, and the first thing Sam saw was a head of bright orange hair—impossible to miss, even in the half-light.

She looked up, her green eyes wide and stunned as she looked at each member of the group, until they fell pointedly on the Doctor, who was looking at her with an expression of equal parts pain and shock.

"Amy?" Sam breathed.

"Doctor?" Amy whispered, taking a few steps closer, and Sam saw her eyes were filling with tears. "I heard your voice. I knew—God, Doctor, is it really you this time?"

The Doctor allowed her to move very close to him, but he was looking at her in utter disgust.

"Not her," he told Amy, leaning into her face. "Change form."

Amy shook her head, not understanding. "Doctor—it's me."

"Amy?" Dean asked, not able to take his eyes off of her.

Meanwhile, Clara was demanding, "Doctor, who is she?  _Doctor_!"

"Dean!" Amy shouted, holding a porcelain palm in his direction and looking at him with pleading eyes. "What's he talking about?"

"That's the woman," Arthur was saying congruently, circling around the group to look at Amy at every angle. "That's the woman I saw before I found you all."

Sam immediately took out his knife and held it at the ready.

"Change form," the Doctor said again patiently, but his voice was shaking with fury.

"What are you talking about? Doctor, you are scaring me," Amy told him. "You are properly scaring me."

"Change form  _now_!" he raged, his voice ricocheting against the walls. As he yelled, he took a large step into Amy, who jumped back in fear.

The wrath in his eyes didn't fade and, after a pause, Amy's shoulders slackened and she blinked away her crocodile tears.

"Oh, it was worth a shot, wasn't it?" she said casually before holding up her palm and snapping her fingers.

At once, Sam found he couldn't move his legs. It was as though they were bolted to the ground. As he looked around, he saw the others were experiencing the same sensation.

"A knife?" Amy said, now looking at Sam. "Really, Sam? Is that any way to greet your old friend Amy?" She snapped again, and the knife flew from Sam's grip and clattered to the floor a few feet away from Dean. It was just out of reach now.

Sam struggled against his restraints, grunting and fighting. The only person not doing likewise was the Doctor.

"You're the one I saw crossing the street back in Winchester," Dean realized.

Amy moved to stand in the middle of the group, fixing him with a hard stare. "And the hostess from the diner in Lawrence,  _and_  a projection in the manor," she told him. "Just my little way of keeping an eye on you all, to make sure you were headed in the right direction—Oh, honestly, Merlin, stop trying to escape. You'll only embarrass yourself."

Her back was to him, but Merlin stopped muttering incantations at his paralyzed legs and glared at Amy through his eyelashes.

"Now, if everyone could pipe down, it's time for the grown ups to talk," she said, turning around at the waist to grin fiercely at the Doctor.

"Happily," the Doctor said, a hint of menace in his voice. "But not as her. You have billions of forms to choose from. Pick another."

Amy puckered her lips, amused. "Why? Because you left me behind? Because I waited for you—until the day I died, I waited for my raggedy man to come back. All my life, waiting. Did you even  _try_  to come back? And you want me to change because of your guilty conscience? Are those your demands?"

"More like a suggestion."

Amy seemed to consider this. "Fine," she said at once, and then she turned around completely and strode up to him. "Who would you prefer?"

The air around her shimmered, creating a dull silver light, and when the light disappeared, a man was standing in Amy's place. Sam only saw the man from behind, but he instantly recognized him as Rory.

"Me?" Rory asked, staring daggers at the Doctor. "Because you didn't ruin my life; you made it better. The second she stopped chasing after you, we were able to live a life. No more dying. No more running. I finally got some peace. I wasn't the butt of all your— _cosmic jokes_. Not anymore." He narrowed his eyes at the Doctor. "That's all I ever wanted, you know—to get her away from you. Two thousands years, I waited for her—every day harder than the next—and, still, all she saw was  _you_."

The Doctor gave a razor-thin smile, remaining steadfast. "After all he and I have been through?" he asked Rory. "You really think I don't know I have his forgiveness?"

Rory leaned in, looking like he was about to tell a secret. "Like you know you don't deserve it?"

The Doctor's smile faltered.

"Not me, then?" Rory asked, shimmering again to reveal another redheaded woman, this one standing tall with her hands on her hips like an angry mother. For a split second, Sam saw the Doctor wasn't able to meet the woman's eyes.

"She would have died if I hadn't—" the Doctor told the floor, but the woman cut him off.

"What makes you think I wouldn't have  _preferred_ that?" she scolded, her tone mocking as she leaned back and gestured with her hands. "Ooh, I knew I was just a temp. That's all I was, wasn't I? A  _temp_! But I  _never_ thought . . ." She shook her head. "I was  _somebody_ out there with you. And you took that away from me."

"Doctor," Clara said into the pause, fishing for the Doctor's eyes. "She's not real."

He met Clara's gaze, holding it for a long time so he wouldn't have to look into the eyes of the woman before him, who had morphed again. This time she was a black woman with her arms folded tightly across her chest.

"Still not doing it for you?" the woman said, cocking her head to the side.

"Definitely not," the Doctor shot back, abandoning Clara's gaze. There was a glint of pride in his eyes. "Martha Jones was brilliant. She turned out all right."

"Oh,  _right_! I was a proper success story!" Martha yelled, her voice cracking slightly as she threw her arms up and her eyebrows darted to her hairline. "Imagine how much better I could have been if  _you_  didn't show up? Hell, I could have been the  _best_. But, instead, I'm chasing around aliens in  _your_  name," she continued, talking more and more quickly as she went. "I couldda made a difference. I couldda been remembered for something. Best thing I did was walk through Hell for  _you_ , and nobody remembers  _that_! No one remembers my family being tortured for a whole year, all for you, do they? No one remembers everything we sacrificed for you—everything that did to us afterwards."

The Doctor didn't answer.

" _Do they_?" she shouted, hating to be ignored.

When there was still no reply, she let out a frustrated noise and circled to the back of the Doctor. Now that Sam could get an unobstructed view of the Time Lord, he saw a soft, dark expression on his angular features. Like some of the words were getting through to him.

Sam was just about to open his mouth and knock the Doctor out of it when a different voice sounded from behind the Doctor's back.

"And wha' about me?"

The Doctor froze, and he brought his eyes up from the floor as the short, blonde woman revealed herself and walked to his front. She looked up at him with big, sad eyes, and he searched her face like he thought he'd never see it again. He was comparing every imperfection, every pore, every flesh tone to those he'd committed to a fading memory.

"You said I was different," she told him in a small voice. "But I'm not. I'm—You just forgot about me, like all the others, didn't ya?" She took in a sharp breath. "You  _left_  me—after all I went through to get back to you, and you left me  _again_ , to clean up your mess! But he wasn't you. He could never even be  _like_  you!" She was shouting now, and the Doctor's jaw was parted in so many unspoken words. "Not even close—and you didn't even  _care_! You didn't even say goodbye. You just went and—and  _replaced_  me!"

Finally, he spoke, in a low tone, losing himself for a moment.

"How could anyone  _ever_  replace you?"

The silver light overcame her again, and Amy grinned predatorily at him with smug satisfaction.

"One woman a hundred times over can replace the lot," she said, turning her head sharply to the left to look at Clara. "Isn't that right, Miss Oswald?"

Clara didn't understand, and the Doctor wouldn't let her.

"Don't listen to her!" he warned Clara, and Amy chuckled.

"No, no, don't listen to  _me_ ," she said, pacing towards Clara now. "After all, I'll only tell you the truth. My, my, you haven't gotten that in awhile; has she, Doctor?"

"Says the one who won't show us what she really looks like," Clara countered, and Amy looked impressed.

"Oh, this one's  _courageous_. Yes, I  _do_  admire your spunk, Miss Oswald." Amy looked her up and down hungrily. "I think I'll kill you first." Her eyes shot back to the Doctor as she assured him, "Don't worry, Doctor, you'll be saved for last—after all your friends are dead."

She glared back at Clara. "And, believe me, darling, I could tell you a thousand lies with a hundred different faces, and I'd still be more honest than him," she said, and she finally turned to the rest of the group. "Did none of you ever wonder why he's always got a new traveling buddy? No? None of you  _ever_  asked how long it takes before he's done playing with your little heads?"

She looked over her shoulder at the Time Lord.

"That lonely spaceman, making all those lesser apes believe he's some god: the man with all the answers—until you disappoint them. Hang them high and dry, and those are the lucky ones. What happens to the others? What do you think, Doctor? How will our Clara's story end? How will she die for you this time?"

"Alright, we're endin' this now," Dean said as he whipped out his Colt and aimed it at Amy.

"No, don't!" the Doctor shouted, holding up his hands. He tried to spring forward, but he couldn't.

"You know she's not Amy, Doc," Dean told him, clutching the trigger but not firing.

"I know," the Doctor told him genuinely. "I know who it is. Please, put the gun down."

Dean remained tense, and Sam saw his inner struggle, trying to decide what to do. When he finally reached a conclusion, it looked at though it took all Dean's willpower to lower the handgun.

"Oh, good dog," Amy told him with a smirk. "You heel when you're told." Her hair fanned out around her as she swiftly turned her head towards the Doctor. "You  _must_  tell me where you found the mutts, Doctor."

Sam bristled at the comment, but figured there were more important things than his pride at stake at the moment. "Who is she, Doc?" he demanded.

"She's not a she," the Doctor told them. "Or a he. And we can't kill it, otherwise we'll win. We can't win."

"No. No, you can't," Amy said, pacing around the circle. "Tell them why, Doctor."

The Doctor's eyes followed her as she walked, and his shoulders hung in dejection. "This game—it's a trap," he said. "There was never a way for us to win it. We kill her, this universe falls apart—with us inside. If we lose, she traps us here forever: More levels, more games—on and on until she gets bored."

She was circling Sam now, running her finger down his neck, even though he tried to lean away from her. "And I could watch you and your little friends run for an eternity, Doctor," she said, removing her finger from Sam's skin and tasting the sweat. She turned around and started back towards the Doctor.

"The Celestial Toymaker," he said, naming the being, almost as though he were greeting it. "It's been a long time."

"Too long," Amy responded.

"What's a Celestial Toymaker?" Clara demanded.

"A god—well, I say  _god_ ," the Doctor said, and Sam couldn't help but find his tone a little too nonchalant. Every time he and Dean had ever come across a god, shit usually hit the fan faster than usual. "It can create universes, but tiny ones. Just enough for what it needs to toy with people. It gets under your skin—finds your weaknesses," the Doctor continued.

"And do you realize just how hard it is to build a universe without  _some_  version of  _at least_  one of you?" Amy said with a roll of her eyes. "It's like the cosmos demands it. It's hard to extract something from the fabric of time and space . . . but I managed," she finished proudly.

"Last time we met, I trapped you," the Doctor told her. "How did you  _possibly_  get free?"

"I was  _set_  free," Amy said.

"By?"

"It doesn't matter," Amy said with a wave of her hand. "You'll never meet my boss—not anymore. You should thank me for that."

"Yeah, remind us to send a fruit basket," Dean barked.

Amy rounded on him, her face the expression of anger, and she reached out a hand in Sam's direction. She squeezed her fist, and Sam felt as though the oxygen got ripped out from him. He gasped, trying to suck in air, but none came, causing him to clutch at his throat and double over.

"Sam!" he heard his brother shout. "Sammy!  _You_   _bitch_! Let him go!"

Sam felt like he was drowning—quickly, at that—and fell to his knees. His head was pounding, and he was sure it would cave in under pressure before his body even got the chance to convulse. Vaguely, he heard Merlin uttering a counter spell, trying to save him, but it wasn't working.

"Sam!"

He still fought for air, but it becoming too difficult. He had already been weakened by the trials, and he felt his body give out. He fell to the ground below on all fours, sputtering as his skin turned a pale blue. He barely even noticed that his feet were now free.

"The Silence!" the Doctor shouted in a controlled panic, trying to step forward fruitlessly. "That's what we were told: Silence will fall when the Once and Future King rises," he recited what the demon said.

Amy lowered her hand, and Sam instantly felt the air rush back into his lungs. He gasped it in, drinking in bouts as he rolled over to his back and panted. Dean forgot himself for a moment and tried to rush over to him, so Sam looked at his brother with bloodshot eyes and nodded, telling Dean he was all right. He tried struggling to his feet to prove it, but he was too weak.

"You think the Silence have the power to release  _me_?" Amy asked the Doctor, sounding amused.

"Or whoever else is working for them," the Doctor said, calmer now.

"Oh, you just have it  _all_  figured out, don't you?" Amy sneered.

"No," the Doctor admitted. "But I'll tell you what I do have: One of the greatest minds in human history, a tech genius, an angel, the world's greatest sorcerer, an undead king, and the two men who stopped the apocalypse—not to mention the last living Time Lord. What could your  _boss_  have over that?"

For a moment, Amy seemed unsure—even afraid; but then a twisted smirk tugged at her lips.

"The upper hand," she told the Doctor simply. "Because, do you know what I see,  _Doctor_?" She walked around the circle again, studying them all. "Fragile beings, all of you—racked with guilt and pain, running from your past at every turn. All I did was bring it to the forefront."

She passed next to Dean and stepped over Sam as she went. "The orphans and their selfish need for family."

Next, she looped between Merlin and Arthur. "The servant, longing for a life of truth and equality with his master."

Finally, she circled Clara and stood in front of the Doctor. "And the warrior, running from his secrets—even when one of them is running along next to him—" The Doctor's eyes flashed to Clara for only the briefest of moments. "How you wish you had nothing to hide from. How you wish you could take it all back."

As she paced backwards, again towards the center of the circle, Sam noticed the Doctor's eyes scanning the area, finally resting on the knife just a few feet from Sam. He made eye contact with Sam, and then looked back at the knife pointedly.

Sam furrowed his brow for a moment of contemplation, and then it finally hit him: His feet were free.

He kept his eyes on the Toymaker as she passed between the paralyzed bodies and, once her back was to him, Sam started to army crawl as fast as he could in the direction of the dagger.

"And your detective and that angel?" Amy was saying. She snorted a laugh. "They're just as fractured as the rest of you—always trying to piece together the puzzles, but never able to fix themselves. And all it took was a little game to show you."

Sam had the knife in his hand now, and he glanced back at Amy, making sure she wasn't looking. His eyes then sought Dean's, who was looking down at him with his jaw set. His expression was telling Sam to do it—do it now. It gave Sam the strength to get to his feet, but he stayed low, tailing the Toymaker.

She stood in front of the Doctor now, leering. "You weren't even hard to defeat in the end. Haunted men are so easily broken."

Now, the Doctor was grinning. "Maybe," he said, lifting his palms in a shrug. "But that's the thing about the haunted—big imaginations. Big dreams. You never know what we'll do next."

Sam was behind Amy now, and he plunged the knife into her back and twisted it. It may not have been enough to kill her, but it was enough of a distraction to release her hold on the others. Her back arched and she let out a sharp gasp of pain when Sam took the knife out of her, and she rounded on him, not noticing the Doctor immediately spring into action. He took out his sonic and made towards the Pandorica.

"You little  _snake_!" Amy shouted at Sam, and Sam stumbled to the ground, his knees having given up on him. "I should have killed you when I had the chance!"

"Yeah, guess you shouldda," Sam told her defiantly.

There was a booming sound, and Amy spun around towards the source: the Pandorica. It was opening, first to a sliver of intense light, but the entrance widened, revealing the prison inside.

"Merlin! Get her in!" the Doctor commanded, and Sam turned his head to Merlin just in time to see the sorcerer's eyes light up and his palm thrust in Amy's direction. She was flung into the giant box, and the restraints hissed as they locked her in at the wrists and ankles. The Doctor barely gave her a second glance before resealing the box with another wave of the sonic.

Suddenly, there was silence, and they stood still for a long moment, bracing themselves for whatever was next—but it never came.

"That's it?" Clara asked, looking around wildly.

"You sound disappointed," Arthur observed.

"Yeah, but," Clara stammered. "That's  _it_?"

As if to answer her, the ground began to shudder under their feet. It was a soft rumble at first, but it began to grow rapidly.

"Well, now you've done it!" Arthur told Clara.

"It wasn't her," the Doctor said. "We won—we won the game. The universe is getting smaller, working its way to us. It's breaking down."

"With us in it?" Dean said. He'd heard the Doctor the first time he'd said it, but now it was becoming very real. He rushed to Sam and helped him stand up, because if Sam Winchester was dying today, he was sure as Hell going to do it on his feet.

"Doctor, is there no way out?" Merlin asked, sounding ready for either answer.

"Of course, there's a way out," the Doctor said. "There always been a way out—staring us right in the face."

The ground gave another jolt, and pieces of rock from the pillars broke off.

"Then, do it!" Dean demanded, his eyes on the ceiling, which was threatening to cave in. "We gotta get outta here!"

The Doctor nodded. "Follow me," he said, and he bounded towards the steps on the other end of the room. They all rushed after the Doctor, dodging falling debris as they ran.

The Doctor was already at the top of the stairs when Sam caught up to him, and he seemed to open a hidden trapdoor in the ceiling. Sunlight instantly flooded in.

"We're underground?" Arthur realized, and they followed the light to the surface.

Once they were all topside, the Doctor heaved a great stone slab over the entranceway, and the rest got a look at their surroundings—at the gigantic circle of rock that surrounded them. Sam gaped at them.

"The Great Stones of Nemeton?" Merlin wondered aloud. He turned around to the Doctor for an explanation. "I don't understand."

"It's our way out," the Doctor told him shortly before looking to Sam. "Get Sherlock on the phone!"

Sam took out his phone and did as he was told, and the video connected shortly, revealing Sherlock's dark features. "Ah, Doctor," his voice rang through the speaker. Sam held it out so it faced the Doctor. "I was wondering when you'd get in touch."

"I haven't called for you," the Doctor told him, crowding into the phone. "Put Castiel on the line, quickly."

"Cas?" Dean asked, shocked. "What can he—?"

"Uh, hello?" Cas' unsure voice came. He sounded almost as confused at Dean looked.

"Cas, good!" the Doctor said with a grin. "Just the multidimensional being we need." He jumped on top of the center rock, holding his hands out and spinning around, gesturing to the stones. " _For this_! It's how we get home. This universe was created haphazardly—it was in shambles from the beginning, letting  _our_  universe fight for dominance." He pointed towards Arthur. "Arthur's sword." He then waved a palm towards the Winchesters. "Dean and Sam's house burning down." Again, he directed their attention to the stone structure. "And Stonehenge! How can it be here if I never existed? How could anything else be here if not for any of you?"

"It's our universe, then," Clara said, working it out. "Things from our universe—not copies."

"Exactly," the Doctor said. "Our universe, bleeding through. The older something is, the weaker the fracture between universes is. And these stones were ancient even  _before_ the ancient world. This is where the tear is at it's thinnest."

He jumped off the stone and snatched the phone from Sam's hand. "Just thin enough for you to reach through," he told Castiel. "Stonehenge is a transmitter—a beacon for my captors after I'd been drawn in. We can use that to connect the universes, so you can zap us home!"

"That kind of power, Doctor," Cas said. "It won't be easy."

"I know," the Doctor said. "But you can do it. I have faith in  _you_ , Castiel. Rip through the Howling, Eternal—I know you can!"

Cas nodded obediently back. "I won't fail you," he promised.

"Never thought you would," the Doctor said encouragingly, beaming at him. He ended the call and tossed the phone to Dean.

* * *

Castiel pressed the mobile into Sherlock's palm. "Stand back," he told the detective.

"If you're certain this will work," Sherlock told him. He turned away and came to a stop just at the edge of the circle of stones. When he looked back, Castiel had a palm pressed onto one of the inner stones, and Sherlock watched him curiously.

He narrowed his eyes at the angel, and instantly noticed Castiel's eyes lighting up a fiery white, illuminating the night. The wind began to pick up, whipping Sherlock's coat around his legs, and the light coming from Cas seemed to envelop the entire monument. Sherlock put his arm up to shield his eyes, but dared not look away.

* * *

Sam blinked against the hot white light that emitted around him and, once his eyes adjusted, he saw it quickly surround the others, too. It overtook everything, and the earthquakes that had started beneath them, coming up from the cavern below, subsided. The light was so bright that Sam could hear it humming in his eardrums.

"Everyone hold on to your hats!" the Doctor shouted with a whoop of laughter.

Across from him, Sam saw Dean, who was holding his hands spread out and inspecting them. They seemed to be fading away, and Sam noticed the rest of Dean's body becoming a haze. His stomach dropped for a moment, until he looked down at his own hands and saw the same thing happening to them. The same was true for the others as he searched the group: the Doctor, Clara, Arthur . . .

Then he looked next to him at Merlin, whose eyes were fixed on Arthur's, bloodshot and sad. He was wordlessly saying goodbye. However, Arthur was looking at Merlin as though he didn't understand what was happening—because Merlin was not fading into the light. He remained solid and clear, and Sam felt his heart begin to pound.

"Merlin!" he called, and he swiftly grasped Merlin's shoulder, hoping that the connection would pull Merlin through to the other world with them.

Merlin's eyes broke from Arthur's, and he looked at Sam with a sudden panic. "No, Sam!" he yelled as he tried to shake from Sam's grip.

At once, Sam felt his body jolt forward.

* * *

He landed with a thump against the dewy grass, and he opened his eyes to the darkness. Contrasting with the bright light from which he had just come, the world around him seemed black—and he thought he had gone blind. That was until he saw the pinpricks of stars fighting their way through the atmosphere, and he realized it was just night.

Dean sat up, scanning his surroundings for a moment. It was still Stonehenge, except now he could make out a barrier separating the great structure from a beaten pathway, and there was a highway in the distance that headlights occasionally could be seen on.

"Dean!" a familiar voice called, and he looked up to see Cas pacing towards him. The angel reached down and pulled Dean to his feet after they clutched wrists.

"Ah, Cas, never thought it'd be this good to see you," he said with a sideways grin, forgetting that he was supposed to be mad Cas, and Castiel nodded a welcomed hello.

Then Dean looked to the rest of the group. Behind Cas was Sherlock, and he saw the Doctor and Clara brushing themselves off and Arthur getting to his feet. But there was only one person he was looking for, really.

One person he didn't see.

"Sam?" he called out, swiveling his head from side to side in search of his brother. He felt his pulse quicken when he could not located him. "Where the Hell is Sam?"

At this, the others began looking around them.

"Where's Merlin?" came Arthur's concerned voice.

Neither of them were in sight.

Dean suddenly remembered that he was angry with Cas. "You left him there?" he shouted at the angel. "Get him here, Cas. Now!"

Cas shook his head sorrowfully, dread and guilt in his big blue eyes as he opened his mouth and searched for the words to say. "Dean—I  _can't_. The power it requires—"

"You  _gotta_!" Dean yelled, not minding how hurt Cas looked at this. "You shouldda brought him through the first time!"

"It wasn't his fault," the Doctor interrupted, and Dean's glare shot towards him. "Your brother must have interfered somehow."

"Interfered with  _what_?" Dean demanded.

The Doctor looked at Arthur and, after a beat, he said, "Merlin."

* * *

Sam lowered his arm from his eyes. He had been using it as a shield against the light, but that had faded now, leaving only the subtle shining of the sun above. The field before him was empty now: no Doctor, no Clara, no Arthur, and no Dean. He looked around him, trying to catch sight of his brother, but was met only with rolling hills and the looming rock formation.

"Dean?" he called out as he continued to scan the area. "Doc!"

The ground lurched beneath him again, causing him to stumble closer to Merlin.

Once he regained his footing, he tightened his fists at his side, and his jaw began to tremble under the force in which he ground his teeth. His eyes had only a hint of terror in them as he turned to his side and caught Merlin's glance. The wizard's shoulders were squared and he looked at Sam with apologetic eyes. For a moment, Sam furrowed his brow in confusion at this . . .

And then he understood.


	19. Chapter 19

"What do you mean  _Merlin_? Why has Merlin got anything to do with it?"

Dean was wondering the same thing, only for a very different motive—more of a reason that concerned Sam. Still, he could appreciate Arthur's worry. If the Doctor knew what had caused Sam and Merlin to stay behind, maybe he'd know a way to get them back. Dean mentally crossed his fingers.

"Because  _you_  do," the Doctor told Arthur, a grim look in his eyes. "His magic was binding you to that universe—keeping you alive." He let out a deep sigh of regret. "And I told him, as soon as he leaves that universe, the link will be broken and you'll be gone . . . So he stayed."

Arthur fell completely silent as the last bit of information pressed down on him, and the Doctor took a few slow steps closer to the King.

"He wanted to give you a shot at living again—to return to Camelot in his place, but you're not supposed to be here, Arthur. Not anymore. The Toymaker created an image of you using the energy of Margaret Germaine's spirit, just as it did for all of us in the manor; only, none of us had the power to retain that image—to give it a life of its own. No one but Merlin. I'm sorry," and he genuinely meant it. "But you're not  _you_. You're just a memory."

Arthur did not even try to argue. Instead, he put on a brave face and nodded sternly. "Then we cannot abandon them. How do we get them home?"

The Doctor's face brightened at this, and he leapt backwards, now addressing the group. "It will be tricky."

"But do-able?" Dean hoped.

The Doctor snapped and pointed in his direction, looking positive.

"No clue," he said brightly. "But the barriers of that universe are breaking down. If the Tardis can lock on to the coordinates, we could slip through, grab Sam and Merlin, no problem."

" _Or_?" Dean probed, sensing there was more to it than that. When had anything been that simple?

" _Or_ ," the Doctor said, not losing the lightness of his tone. "We could cause a wider fracture in the fabric of that universe and cause it to collapse more quickly."

"I'm guessing the odds are fifty-fifty?" Clara said, crossing her arms.

"More like forty-sixty," the Doctor corrected. He spun around and pointed at Sherlock. "You're a betting man. What d'you reckon? Should we take the risk?"

Sherlock folded his arms behind his back in consideration. "If we try it, they may die," he said. "But if we do nothing, they certainly will."

"Good enough for me," Dean said.

"And I," agreed Arthur.

The Doctor clapped his palms and rubbed them together eagerly. "Good—Castiel," he said next, getting Cas' full attention. "Still got enough juice in you to get us to Los Angeles?" The Doctor looked pointedly at Clara. " _Present day_."

* * *

A voice was sounding in Arthur's head; it was not his own, but it sounded familiar. It echoed through his thoughts just as it did every morning to pull him from his dreams. However, it wasn't so abrupt as usual. It snaked through his mind, faded and reappeared, as though it was fighting to be heard—fighting to exist.

" _Arthur."_

That was all it said.

" _Arthur."_

Arthur peered around the console room—that mad, impossible room squeezed inside a wooden shack, and easily the strangest thing he'd seen during all of this—searching for the source of the voice, but everyone present was staring fixedly at the Doctor, who kept running through ideas about how to pinpoint Merlin and Sam's location—and then contradicting himself by saying those same ideas were impossible to execute. Sherlock and Castiel were keeping their distance, but offering their input at various times. At one point, Sherlock became frustrated with the Doctor's indecisiveness.

" _Arthur, can you hear me?"_

Yes, he knew that voice well. It sounded like—

"Merlin!"

The Doctor stopped talking promptly to stare at Arthur. Everyone else followed in suit. "Yes, Merlin," the Doctor said at last, waving Arthur's interruption away and again starting to circle the console. His voice picked up pace again, "And Sam. We'd be able to get them back if we could just—"

"No," Arthur interjected once more. "He's here. I can hear him!" He began looking wildly around the room from his spot on the stairs. "Merlin, where are you?"

" _Arthur!"_  Merlin's voice was clear as a bell now. It sounded relieved to get an answer.  _"We're still in the other world."_

"No, no," Arthur tried to reason. "He says he's where we left him." Arthur was met with confused faces. "But I can  _hear_  him!"

The Doctor sprang away from the main console and ran up to Arthur. Dean, too, took a few steps closer to the King.

"What about Sam?" he said hopefully, but Arthur shook his head. His eyes were as wide and confused as Dean's.

The Doctor steadied Arthur by putting his hands on Arthur's shoulder. He ascended another step to be level with Arthur's eyes and searched them, swiveling his head and knitting his brow as though expecting to find something other than the bright blue of Arthur's gaze.

"What are you—?" Arthur began, but the Doctor's words drowned out his own.

"Oh, clever Merlin," he was saying. "Clever, clever boy!"

"What!" Dean was demanding, and the Doctor released Arthur to look at him.

"Stonehenge!" the Doctor exclaimed. "He's using a physic link to tear through the weakest point between the universes." He turned back to Arthur. "He's reaching out—in your head."

Arthur stood dumbstruck. "Merlin is  _inside_  my mind?" he said slowly, feeling somewhat annoyed by this intrusion of his privacy. " _Mer_ lin! Get out of my mind!"

"No!" the Doctor said immediately. "We can use this! The Tardis can attach itself to the link. We'll use it as a tether—pulling us through to the parallel world long enough to get Merlin and Sam." He rushed back up to the console and began pushing buttons. "Arthur, tell him to hold it! Don't break the connection!"

"I—" Arthur stammered, still confused, but decided it was best to do as the Doctor said; so he relayed the message.

" _I don't know if I have that much power,"_  he heard Merlin's disembodied voice respond, crestfallen.

"He doesn't think he's strong enough," Arthur passed on to the others.

The Doctor once again stopped frantically moving and walked back to Arthur. His eyes were big and full hope, but Arthur sensed hints of compassion and doubt in them as the Doctor looked into his own eyes. When he spoke, his words were soft. "Of course you are, Merlin," he said, staring into Arthur's eyes as though he could see beyond them to Merlin. "Tell him to focus, Arthur. Focus on you. You're the strongest link he has to this world; that's why only you can hear him. He's bleeding through to you, but he needs to forget the universes between you, forget us, forget Sam—forget everything. Focus entirely on you, and you alone. The tear in this universe will only be there for so much longer before it repairs itself. If he loses the connection, we will  _never_  get them back. Don't let him slip away, Arthur. You need to concentrate on him, too, just as hard."

Arthur shook his head. "But I—Doctor, I don't have magic."

"It doesn't matter," the Doctor said, his voice still lulling Arthur into a dream. "You're not the source, but you're a beacon—a transmitter, just like Stonehenge. There is a connection between you two—stronger than magic, stronger than any force in this universe. Time and space bend to you, Arthur Pendragon, as long as you have Merlin at your side. Concentrate."

Arthur's was slack jawed and his blue eyes gleamed in the hazy light of the Tardis. "He's just my servant," he said breathlessly.

But the Doctor shook his head. "You know that's not true."

There was a pause, and then Arthur stood up straight and nodded dutifully. It went against everything he was taught as a child, but he had to do this. He had to believe he could do this. He drew in a deep steadying breath and skewed his eyes shut.

At once, he could feel another's presence in his consciousness, and he thought his head would fill to the brim and explode. However, Merlin's thoughts quickly settled into place, mixing with his. He could hear them and feel them as clearly as he did his own, until he didn't know exactly where he ended and Merlin began.

He was remotely aware of the sound the Doctor's ship was making, grating somewhere in the distance; he was also somewhat conscious of Sam, holding his breath, standing right next to him. But, no—Sam wasn't next to him. He was next to Merlin . . .

* * *

Sam was grinding his teeth as he watched Merlin, the two of them standing right in the very center of the great stone structure. Merlin hadn't spoken for nearly five minutes, leaving Sam completely in the dark. His stomach was churning with nerves, and the earthquakes around them had become perpetual.

Then he heard it, like a godsend: the Tardis engines blaring faintly. The blue box was pushing its way into the universe, and it seemed to be having a hard time of it.

"C'mon, Merlin," Sam muttered.

The Tardis was not solid when the door opened, and Dean and Clara's heads popped out.

"Sammy, come on!" Dean called, waving him into the Tardis. "Get the kid!"

"Don't break the connection!" Sam heard the Doctor's voice yelling from somewhere inside.

Sam gave a strong nod of understanding and took Merlin by the shoulders. Merlin allowed himself to be led towards the doors, and Sam took in a sharp breath of anticipation as he stepped through the threshold.

The Tardis was completely solid on the inside, and Sam let out that same breath.

"Yes!" the Doctor shouted, a grand grin on his face. He stopped pushing buttons at the console and bounded towards Merlin. He leaned down to look at him. "That's good, Merlin. That will do. Let go."

Sam looked down at Merlin, and saw the sorcerer's eyes will still tightly shut.

"Merlin?" the Doctor tried again.

* * *

"Merlin."

He squinted his eyes against the white light that seemed to be coming from all around him. He couldn't place the source of the voice either, and part of him felt as though the word had come from his own lips.

"Merlin, look at me."

No, it had not come from him. The voice was clearly Arthur's, and he did as Arthur asked. He lowered his arm, which shielded his eyes from the bright light, and saw the King standing before him, his face austere. He was in his chainmail, which was stained with crimson below the chest, and red cloak again.

"Arthur," Merlin breathed out, half thinking the universe around him had shattered and he was now in the spirit realm. "Is it really you?"

Arthur gave a small grin. "No, Merlin," he said. "It was never really me, you know that. The Doctor was right."

Merlin averted his eyes.

"Tell me this, Merlin," Arthur asked. "Why would you want to stay in the other world?"

Merlin smiled sadly. "You know why," he said softly. "I couldn't let you die again—even if that meant being left behind. But I couldn't leave Sam stranded there with me. He needs to go back to the others."

"And you will join him," Arthur told him. It sounded like an order.

Merlin snapped his eyes up to meet the King's. "You will die if I go."

"Merlin, I was never alive," Arthur answered, and for the first time the words sunk in for Merlin. He gaped at the ghost of the man before him. "I could have been, though," Arthur went on. "Your magic is strong."

"Not strong enough for both of us," Merlin said ruefully.

"Don't say that!" Arthur demanded. He clasped his gloved hands on Merlin's shoulders and fished for his eyes. "It has  _always_  been strong enough for the both of us—and it will be again, but not today. I'm sorry, Merlin, but I'm afraid you'll have to wait a very long time for that."

Merlin nodded loyally. He was ready to wait as long as it took but, "Alone?"

Arthur did not respond, but his jaw became a rigid line. After a beat, he released Merlin and took a few steps backward despite the desperate look in Merlin's eyes.

"You have to let go, Merlin," Arthur said, and Merlin swore he heard an echo of the Doctor's voice in those words.

Merlin felt a lump in his throat. "Without a proper goodbye?" he managed to get passed it.

"Don't be such a girl, Merlin," is what Arthur would say, if it were really him. "Don't you ever say goodbye to me."

Merlin agreed silently.

"But you'll wait?" Arthur asked. "You'll be there when I need you? Swear it to me."

Merlin could hear the Doctor's voice clearly now.

" _. . . It's over. You did it. I know you want him to stay—believe me, I_ do _—but this is not the way . . ."_

"I promise."

Arthur's face lit up, and Merlin was sure he would never forget that smile. How could he? This was, after all, only his memory . . .

* * *

"Merlin?" the Doctor said firmly, his eyes fluttering up to meet Clara's for a brief second. Clara was looking at Arthur across the room. "Let him go, Merlin. It's over. You did it. I know you want him to stay—believe me, I  _do_ —but this is  _not_  the way. You  _will_  see him again, I  _promise_. But you  _have_  to let him go."

At once, Merlin's eyes flew open, and they were an intense shade of gold, but they quickly faded back to their normal deep blue. At the same moment, Arthur's eyes opened wide and he let out a loud, shaking inhale, like he was about to plunge under water. The Tardis gave an almighty jolt, causing its passengers to crash down and tumble on top of one another, but it calmed as soon as it had started.

There was a moment of silence as the lights flickered and once more became steady, but the Doctor's laugh broke it. After a moment, Clara joined in. Merlin picked himself up by his hands and the first face he saw was Sam's. Sam was grinning widely at him, and the smile was infectious. He helped Merlin to his feet as the other's stood up and brushed themselves off.

"Clara," the Doctor was saying as he started towards the console. "Congratulate Merlin."

But Merlin didn't feel in the mood to be congratulated. In fact, he felt completely drained. Moreover, he felt empty—like a large piece of himself was missing, and he had no choice but to get used to living life without it from here on out.

His pushed smile faded as he peered across the room, to the place Arthur should have been standing—to the vacant space the King left in his wake. Merlin closed his eyes slowly, trying to find Arthur's face in his memory, trying to recall his smile and the prideful look in his eyes that was sometimes directed at Merlin. Merlin thought, maybe, Arthur would have been giving him that look now—if he could only concentrate hard enough to find it; but the images were fading, as they had been for the past three years, and what was once Arthur's face was now a swarm of darkness behind Merlin's eyelids.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and Merlin reluctantly opened his eyes to Sam, who did no more than offer him a sympathetic smile.


	20. Chapter 20

Camelot loomed in the distance, and Merlin could almost make out the stained glass windows sparkling in the sunlight. There was a time when the sight comforted Merlin—a time when he called the city home, but that time was long gone. He heard the Tardis door creak open behind him, and the Doctor stepped out and stood at Merlin's side, his eyes on the citadel.

The Doctor stood silent for a long time, allowing Merlin to collect his thoughts and be the first to speak. When Merlin finally did, he said in a soft tone, "We treat life like it's this wonderful little game . . . But it's not, is it?"

"No, it isn't," the Doctor agreed, his expression revealing his years. "And people like us never seem to have all the pieces."

"How long will I have to wait?" Merlin asked, silently praying the man was as all knowing as he had once hoped.

"I don't know," the Doctor admitted. "Maybe hundreds of thousands of years. It's hard to tell with these things."

Merlin nodded at this, accepting it. "How do I do it, Doctor?" he asked.

"One breath at a time," was the answer.

The Time Lord caught the sorcerer's eye, and Merlin saw there was a tender smile in his expression. "You can take the shorter path, you know," he said, and Merlin knew what offer was coming next. The Doctor nodded to the blue doors behind them. "Fill your time with us. We can look for Arthur together. You don't have to be alone."

Merlin was tempted by the proposal. In fact, he felt himself smiling, too, but only softly. "Neither do you," he said at last. "And I will be here, Doctor, whenever you call—but, if I do travel with you, can you promise me I won't miss Arthur's return? Can you promise me I'll be back for him?"

The Doctor squared his jaw. "No," he said in small voice.

It was not the answer Merlin wanted to hear, but it was the one he expected. "Then, no," he said apologetically, but resolutely. "I can't travel with you."

"So, what?" the Doctor asked. "Hundreds and thousands of years from now, you'll be a wandering old man?"

"You don't make it seem too bad," he answered sarcastically, and the Doctor laughed bitterly.

" _Nah_ , I suppose I don't," he answered. "But, take some advice from an old man: don't just stand by and watch the world grow and change. Make your time count, Merlin. There's too much to see; too much to do. Not all of it will end happily—but that's not the way the world is, is it? Don't lose your hope in those times . . . Don't be like me."

Merlin closed his eyes and swallowed hard as the Doctor's words rang through his ears.

"Well, I suppose there's only one more thing to do," the Doctor said airily, holding up the sword in his hands and staring down at it like he didn't quite know what it was used for. Merlin glanced down at the golden handle of the weapon, noting the intricate details of it. It wasn't as grandiose as the blade that would one day be known as Excalibur, but this sword was its twin. Before coming to Camelot, the Tardis had made a stop at Mordred's grave, which Merlin had passed by many times in his travels to Avalon. It was Mordred's sword: the sword that slayed the legendary King of Camelot.

"I'll just hop into the future and leave this at the lake for Sherlock and Castiel," the Doctor assured him with a smile.

Merlin bit his lip in thought, still looking at the blade. "Might I take it?" he asked, meeting the Doctor's eyes. "I will leave it for Sherlock to find when the time comes."

"You think you'll live that long, then?" the Doctor asked, his brow raised.

"Maybe."

"Why?"

"Because you're going to give it to me," Merlin said simply. "And where would Sherlock get the sword if I don't leave it for him?"

"Ah, you're catching on!" the Doctor said, not without pride, as he offered the handle of the sword to Merlin, and Merlin wrapped his fingers around it.

"Just one question," the Doctor went on. "Why would you want to hang on to the sword that killed Arthur for that long?"

Merlin rested the flat side of the blade in his palm, and stared down at his distorted reflection in the metal as he considered the Doctor's question. He thought about why this blade had come into existence—why Mordred had turned to Morgana. He wondered if Morgana's fate would be the same if he hadn't betrayed her. Would Arthur still be alive if Merlin had made different choices?

"As a reminder," Merlin told the Doctor, recalling something Arthur had said to him in the manor. "To get it right this time."

The Doctor seemed to accept this and, which a sympathetic expression, he turned back to the Tardis and Merlin brought his attention to Camelot. At once, he knew he could not go back there. He thought of Gwen and her child, and wondered if he stayed at their side for his own sake rather than theirs. Was he selfishly trying to hold on to them for dear life under the guise of their safekeeping and the protection of a Kingdom that was at peace? How long until he lost them? How long would he have before they faded from him? Gaius was just the first of many; there would be a slew of slow goodbyes to come. Eventually, he would even have to leave Camelot and let it fall to ruin and dust, and he wondered if he could sit by and watch that happen without interfering. Could he let it pass from history and memory without a word?

He had seen the future now, and it offered him immense clarity. He could not go back to Camelot. There was nothing for him there anymore. Only ghosts.

"Doctor," he said suddenly, and the Doctor looked around at him with confusion in his eyes. "I was wondering—before I say goodbye, how about just one more trip?"

The Doctor beamed at him.

* * *

The date on the Tradis monitor read  _May 13th, 1452_. The Doctor assured him that Arthur had not come back yet, but the ship's readings became somewhat wonky after the 1490s, when apparently some voyager had set off to discover a New World across the sea. It was for this reason that the Doctor said too many things were about to happen in history, which meant anything could happen.

Regardless, the Doctor had charged Merlin with the task of finding an artist to create the original Winchester Round Table for Sherlock and Castiel to find, based on the layout of the tomb. As an added bonus, he said commissioning the artwork and gifting it to King Edward would help Merlin weed his way back into Court, to keep an eye on the royals if need be.

Merlin didn't understand half of what the Doctor was talking about, but he thought this was as good a place as any to be dropped off. He was taking the slow path, as the Doctor called it, but at least this made it a little quicker.

The Doctor offered Merlin the proper clothes for the time period and a significant amount of gold coins that were hanging about the Tardis to start him off, and Merlin accepted them before saying his goodbyes. He shook Dean's hands, gave Sherlock and Cas a grateful nod and a smile, and let out a gasp when Clara unexpectedly wrapped her arms around him and squeezed him tightly, wishing him luck.

Next was the Doctor's turn, and he gave Merlin a ginger embrace. When he pulled away, Merlin saw something in the Time Lord's eyes: a look that told Merlin that the Doctor knew something he didn't again, but Merlin wasn't so sure he wanted to know what it was.

"Take care of yourself, Merlin," the Doctor said with a weak grin. It made Merlin's own smile waver.

Still, he put on a brave face. "You, as well."

Lastly, he walked away from the console deck and met Sam by the doors.

"Guess you're not staying," Sam said, nodding back towards the Doctor.

Merlin smiled lightheartedly and took a glance over Sam's shoulder at the exit, and he knew a whole new world was waiting for him on the other side. "No," Merlin said. "There's too much to do, I'm afraid. What about you? Will you stay?"

Sam let out an exhale that sounded remotely like a laugh. "No," he said, almost apologetically. "No, it's just too—"

Merlin held up a hand to stop him. "Say no more." He peered around the Tardis again. "I'm becoming much too used to all this."

Sam nodded his agreement. "You said it, man." He took his hands out of his jacket pockets and clasped Merlin's. "I'll see you around. Keep a look out on the night sky, okay? You never know when we might want to get the band back together again."

Merlin grinned as best he could and nodded his head. He met Sam's eyes again. There was so much he wanted to say to him: to be careful, to not let these trials beat him, to  _live_ ; but all he said was, "I look forward to it, my friend."

Sam joined the others on the deck as Merlin took his last few paces to the doors. He opened one of them with an ancient creak, and wrapped his palm around the blue wood as he turned to take one last look at the Tardis. He looked over the grey control boards and the lights, which illuminated the ways to forgotten rooms and to the faraway ceiling; he took in the booming sound that the engines made, the sound he'd dreamt of so fondly over the past years—the sound that calmed him and chased away the nightmares; and the corners of his lips were pulled up as he watched the others talking and laughing about adventures new and old, and about the future.

He let out a breath, and let everything else go with it, and closed the door behind him.

* * *

"Anyway, thanks for not killing me."

Sam let out an awkward, choked laugh, and Clara's giggle was much easier.

"Letting it go," she swore, raising her palms in mock surrender. "Right now—letting it go. That was the last jab. Ooh, sorry! I didn't mean that as a knife joke."

"Just, uh—I'll see ya later," Sam told her, and he bent down low to give her a hug.

"I never imaged you as a taxi service, Doctor," Sherlock was saying as he slowly circled the console.

The Doctor looked offended. "Oi! She's got to get home. She's a  _nanny_."

"And she puts the universe on the wayside for nannying?"

"You have people you'd put anything on the backburner for, Sherlock," Castiel responded before the Doctor could. He appeared to be choosing his words carefully. "I wouldn't talk so . . .  _tough_ , if I were you."

Sherlock looked at Cas in amused shock, and the Doctor laughed lightly. "Looks like you've made yourself a friend, Sherlock!"

Cas looked very pleased with himself.

"Doctor," Clara called, getting his attention. She gave him a wave. "See you next Wednesday. Try not to be too late."

" _Late_?" the Doctor spat, looking offended. "I can't believe you'd even  _think_  that."

Clara rolled her eyes and made her way to the exit, where she found Dean.

"What, I don't get a goodbye?" he said, a handsome grin on his lips as he spread his arms for a hug.

"Sorry, are you still here? I didn't realize," Clara joked, but she rushed in close to him and stood on her tiptoes, pecking a kiss to Dean's cheek, which he closed his eyelids and leaned into. She dimpled up at him with bright eyes for a moment after the kiss broke before looking back around. "Until next time, boys."

"Count on it," promised Dean, and she shoved passed him and out the door.

As Dean stood next to Sam, the Doctor's hands were already flying over the controls. "Right, then," he said, spinning around on his heels as he danced around the console. "Next stop—Kansas."

"As I said: taxi service," mocked Sherlock.

The Doctor responded by slamming his palm down on a button and sending the ship into motion, causing each of the other passengers to stumble around.

* * *

Sam followed Dean and Cas outside of the Tardis and breathed in the fresh Kansas air. It was dusk, and The Doctor had dropped them off right outside the bunker, like they asked, and Sam had never been so happy to see the cement doorway in the side of the hill that opened up to all the comforts of home.

 _Home_ , he thought, reflecting on the word. The only connotation he'd ever had with it was the town in which his mother died: A town he'd only walked through a handful of times. He was glad he got to experience the true meaning of the word before . . . Well. Who knew what would happen in the coming days?

"Ah, baby!" Dean catcalled at the first sight of the Impala, and he rushed towards the car and ran his open palm along the side. "Did I miss you!"

Sam grinned and shook his head at Dean as Sherlock stepped out of the Tardis behind him, and the Doctor stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. Sam turned around to say goodbye as Dean wandered back over.

"Sure no one fancies a pop back to the 20s? I promised Clara. Guess she'd rather spend the night in," the Doctor offered, nodding backwards towards the console. He pushed a smile to his lips, trying not to look too lonely. "Or we could go somewhere else. I've got nothing but time on my hands."

It was tempting, but Sam shook his head. "Can't say the same for us, Doc; sorry."

"Yes, I've done quite enough unexpected travelling for the time being," Sherlock agreed. "But, Doctor, there's something you should know. When that creature was inside my mind—"

"The demon," Cas corrected him.

Sherlock let out a heavy breath. "Yes, the  _demon_ ," he said aloud for the first time. "As it was in my thoughts, I managed to access its mind."

"You what?" Dean asked, suddenly looking alert. "How?"

Sherlock grinned. "It's hardly a one-way street," he said before turning back to the Doctor. "I was able to find out information."

"Regarding why the demon was kidnapping people?" the Doctor guessed.

"It never said," Castiel agreed.

"No, it didn't," said Sherlock. "But I  _saw_. It wasn't kidnapping them at all. It was  _collecting_  them."

Sam furrowed his brow. "Collecting them for what?"

"Recruitment," Sherlock told them. "They need human vessels—many of them; and it's not only happening in Lawrence. It's all over the world—thousands of locations. The demon didn't know all the locations. I assume that information is on a need to know basis, but they're certainly out there." There was a beat before Sherlock finished with, "They're building an army."

"An army for what?" the Doctor asked.

"I wasn't able to decipher that," Sherlock admitted. "But I would be wary of it, Doctor."

"I wouldn't be," Dean cut in. "It won't matter soon. Me and Sam, we're lockin' all those sons of bitches down and we're throwin' away the key."

Suddenly, Sam couldn't swallow passed the lump in his throat.

"You're certain?" Sherlock asked, skeptical.

"Absolutely," Dean answered a touch too soon. He shuffled around slightly and licked his lips, trying to look natural, but his eyes darted to Sam's for a quick moment.

If Sherlock noticed it, which Sam was certain he did, he didn't say. "Then I shall leave it in your . . .  _capable_  hands," he said instead. He turned to the Doctor. "Doctor, pleasure, as always." Finally, he looked at Cas and nodded a farewell. "Castiel."

Cas smiled back at him and Sherlock began walking down the dirt path towards the main road.

"And, oi! Answer your texts next time I phone!" the Doctor called after him, and Sherlock spun around on his heels to look at him. There was a grin on his face.

"Evidentially, I don't need you anymore, Doctor," he said, and nodded towards Cas. "Not while I have an angel watching over me." He placed his hands into his pockets and turned around again, his long legs swiftly carrying him down the path as his open coat billowed out behind him.

Sam watched him go with raised eyebrows until he was out of earshot. "Guy kinda sucks at goodbyes, huh?" he observed.

"Don't all of us?" Cas responded, and the others seemed to mull this over for a moment.

"Well, then," the Doctor said. "'Till next time."

Dean snorted, but he was smirking. "Let's hope there isn't a next time."

"I would never dream of it," answered the Doctor.

"I mean it, Doc," Dean insisted. "Man, every time we see you, we're swept off into other worlds and freakin' outer space. I'm done! I'm keepin' my feet right here in Uncle Sam's backyard from now on."

"I'm just a phone call away, if you change your mind," the Doctor said, his smile never faltering.

"Yeah," Sam agreed, squinting in the setting sun behind the Tardis. "We got it."

The Doctor stepped backwards and closed the door of his ship. Seconds later, the wind picked up, causing dead leaves to cascade and twirl through the air around them, and the metallic hum of the engines breathed in and out before fading away with the box. The three remaining men turned towards each other, and Sam shoved his hands into his pockets.

"We better get to it, then," Dean said. "Who knows how many people Crowley's managed to get to while we were away. Can't afford to waste anymore time."

Sam looked to the earth beneath him and nodded softly before looking to Cas. "You in?"

Cas took a deep sigh inwards and squinted his eyes down the path. "No," he said after a beat.

Dean readjusted his stance, and Sam could practically see all his defenses go up. "Come again?"

Castiel looked directly at him. "I can't, Dean," he said. "I have something I have to do."

"Like what?" Dean challenged.

"Yeah, Cas. I mean, we could really use your help on this one," Sam told him, trying to keep his voice kind.

When Cas looked at him, his blue eyes were full of sorrow. "I'm sorry," he said, and Sam believed him. "I'll come if I can."

There was a faint fluttering sound, and Cas disappeared right before their eyes.

" _Cas_ —dammit," Dean called, flapping his arms at his sides and deciding not to waste his breath. Instead, he focused on his brother. "It's alright," he said, not very reassuringly. "We still stick to the plan—me and you. We got this." He clapped Sam on the back, causing Sam's knees to wobble softly, as he headed towards the main door of the bunker. "C'mon, Sam. We got a call to make."

Sam hung back a minute, taking in breaths of clean air. He brought his eyes to the spot where the Doctor had disappeared before staring down the road in which Sherlock had gone, and he mused on where in the world Merlin might be and how he was doing; and he wondered if he would ever get the chance to see them all again.

He didn't suppose he would.

With one last sweeping look around, he traced Dean's footsteps to the front door of their home.


	21. Epilogue

Not a light was on up or down the street. This hill had changed over the past thousand or so years. It had once been a dense forest, green and brimming with carnivorous beasts. She smirked at the memory, but it quickly faded. This location was now a neighborhood—and a mediocre one at best: Normal insolent people, living their lives like sheep. Although, she supposed that would work in her favor soon enough.

She was unseen as she walked into the backyard of one of the small homes, and ducked into the tree line of what was left of the forest—just a few trees so the homeowners would think they were still in touch with nature. She walked a quarter of a mile into the brush, until she finally reached the spot she was looking for.

She instantly felt a jolt, like she had somehow left her body—or, that is, the body of whomever she was riding at the time.

Yes. This was it. This was the spot in which she died; where her body was forgotten, left to decay and be picked apart by animals and turn to ash—all centuries before anyone in those comfortable little homes were existent or their occupants born.

She breathed in the air and the scent of the bark, having to admit that she was glad to be topside again. It had been a long while by the years of this earth, but it had been even longer in the Pit. She was determined to never go back there, and she would reclaim what was hers, starting with her true form.

She reached into her pack and placed six black candles in a circle around the tree that grew from the fertilizer of her bones. She snapped, and the candles lit themselves. Next, she placed her hand on the center of the trunk and, when she removed her palm, a sigil had been burnt into it: looking like a sideways S with two vertical lines running parallel in the middle. She then took out a knife and pressed a smooth line into her wrist, watching the crimson ooze out. She let a few drops trickle onto the dirt next to the tree.

As soon as the first drop hit the ground, the dirt inside the circle of candles began to glow gold. There was a surge, and the electricity flickered on in all the cottages of the neighborhood behind her. Her eyes faded to black as she began to chant, and the light grew more intensely, until it lit up the space around her.

Then it faded, and the light of the candles blew out on their own accord.

Again, she reached into her bag and pulled out a compact mirror, taking in a steadying breath of anticipation before turning it around on her face and taking in the sight. In place of the blonde hair of her vessel were her messy raven colored locks. Her icy blue eyes stared back at her. She let out a short, breathless laugh of excitement, relishing the warmth of the breeze on her skin.

Her eyes caught the light of the full moon, its broken reflection shimmering on the lake in the distance beyond the trees.

"Hello, dear  _brother_ ," Morgana hissed. "You didn't think this was over, did you?"

**The End.**

* * *

**Read The Slow Path: An Interlude and Part III: The Rise and Fall.**

* * *

Soundtrack: _  
_ **1.** _Into the Wild_ – LP _  
_ **2.** _Us_ – Regina Spektor _  
_ **3.** _Holocene_ – Bon Iver _  
_ **4.** _Cosmic Love_ – Florence + the Machine _  
_ **5.** _So He Won't Break_ – The Black Keys _  
_ **6.** _Lonely Soul_ – Unkle  
 **7.**   _We Must Be Killers_  – Mikky Ekko  
 **8.**   _I Am the Highway_  – Audioslave  
 **9.**   _Death and All His Friends_  – Coldplay  
 **10.**   _Kids on the Run_  – The Tallest Man on Earth


End file.
